Metals to Alloy
by nanaa127
Summary: A risky mission through rough, hostile territory draws three friends closer together and sets them on the path to becoming inseparable. Pre-series.
1. Chapter 1

_January 1626_

"Five paces!"

"Come on now, five? No less than ten!"

"Oi, what?" A guffaw of rough laughter followed. "He's drunk! He's just as likely to blow the Musketeer's head off!"

"Eh, if he misses at ten then he'd miss at five anyway," another voice sniggered. "Ten paces!" The call was taken up by the crowd and soon a chorus of voices was demanding ten paces.

Athos grabbed Porthos' arm as he began to count out his steps and the bigger man stared back at him blearily. "Are you sure about this?"

Porthos yanked his arm out of Athos' grip and readjusted his shirt with exaggerated care. "Course I am. I've never missed!"

Athos raised an eyebrow. He'd had more to drink than Porthos but, despite the fact that the big man probably had a good twenty kilos on him, Athos was certain he was the more sober of the pair. "How many times have you done this?"

A little furrow appeared between his brows as Porthos thought hard. "Once? Was a couple years ago though. On my birthday." A big grin split his face. "Took a few tries but I got it."

Athos' eyes widened and he looked over his shoulder to where Aramis was patiently waiting against the wall, a lumpy white gourd sitting on top of his head. He gave Athos a little wave and then took a healthy pull from his glass. "Ready when you are, mon ami," he called out, and gave an elaborate little bow when the room applauded his bravado. The gourd fell off his head and Aramis swore loudly, scrambling to replace it. He held it steady on his long, mussed hair with his free hand and took another carefree swig of wine. Athos shook his head at the sight.

"I'm surrounded by fools," he muttered. "Soon to be dead fools, if I'm not mistaken." He stepped back to watch the proceedings and tried to ignore the sourness that curdled in his stomach. This was not going to end well. How could it? He was starting to get the idea that Aramis was a reckless sort of person, but Athos hadn't realized he'd be harebrained enough to allow a drunk man to try and shoot a melon off his head. Especially when that man was Porthos, whose aim did not exactly have a sterling reputation even when he was sober.

Beside him, Porthos was taking in deep, slow breaths, puffing out his cheeks as he exhaled loudly. He raised his pistol and pointed the muzzle at his friend, sighting down the barrel with one eye squeezed shut. "Are you absolutely, positively certain you want to do this?" Athos asked again. He really did not want to have to explain to Tréville why one of his best men was in a prison cell while another was dead.

Porthos lowered his gun and glared at Athos with open annoyance. "If you don't want to watch, then leave," he slurred. "You're ruining my concet... contrec..." Porthos growled with frustration. "You're ruining my focus." He raised his pistol again.

"Good lord," Athos murmured. He considered leaving for a brief moment but then decided against it. He instead eyed Aramis, who had been unusually quiet the entire evening. The man was normally loud and cheerful on their nights out, but tonight, he'd been oddly withdrawn. It wasn't until Porthos had suggested that they try their 'old trick' that Aramis had brightened. Which, when Athos thought about it, probably said something very unflattering about the marksman's sanity.

Aramis was fixedly staring at the dark end of the pistol that would soon fire a ball straight towards his head. If he was worried about Porthos' drunken state or the distance of the shot, it was impossible to tell. The young Musketeer's posture was relaxed and unconcerned, and all Athos could see in his face was pure trust. He had faith that Porthos would hit the target.

"Three sous that the big one misses," a voice crowed.

"Make it five!" another called out. "And I'll bet that the shot blows apart the Musketeer's pretty head instead of that ugly melon."

Athos' teeth clenched in sudden anger at the callous statement. The wagers flew furiously, and it soon became apparent to him that the only person in the room that had any confidence in Porthos was Aramis himself. _Although I haven't the faintest idea why_ , Athos thought exasperatedly. Still, the glee with which the other tavern patrons predicted Aramis' death grated on his nerves for reasons that Athos did not care to examine too closely. He set down the wine bottle he'd been carrying onto a table with an aggressive thump.

"Five livres that the gourd dies, and not the Musketeer," he said loudly. Silence abruptly fell over the crowd and Athos felt heat flare in his face. Perhaps he was more inebriated than he had thought - he'd just wagered twenty times the amount of the highest bet thus far. Athos doubted anyone else in the room would be able to cover it. Porthos glanced at him with eyebrows raised.

There was another hushed beat before someone yelled, "You're with them! You can't bet on this. Ain't fair!" A murmur of agreement circled the room, but the only thing Athos was paying attention to was the pleased look on Aramis' face. The marksman acknowledged him with a small nod, still propping up the target on his head. A few seconds later, the melon exploded as a lead ball unerringly ripped through its center. Aramis laughed, delighted as he was showered with a sticky mix of rind, pulp and juice.

The next morning, he was gone.

* * *

 _March 1626_

He was desperately hungry.

Hunger had been his constant companion for over a week, gnawing incessantly at his shrunken, empty stomach as he slowly scraped his way through the icy, hilly forests. Aramis crouched down behind a fallen log, pressing a hand tightly against his aching belly while he scanned the trail for any signs of pursuit. It had been several days since he'd last seen Spanish soldiers on his tail, and for the moment, it appeared that he had successfully lost them. He knew it wouldn't last for long, however. It never did. They always managed to pick up his scent sooner or later.

He'd had been wary about the assignment even as they had made contact with Bianchi in Milan. The reports they'd received had been outdated and vague at best. Aramis supposed that some might consider their mission to have been successfully executed, but it had come at a high cost. Far too high, in his opinion. Girard was dead, killed during their brief layover in Torino. Aramis' mind shied away from the memory of their frantic fight for survival. There was no point in dwelling on it now.

He turned his attention to more pressing, immediate matters. It had been over a day since he'd last eaten, and the continuous toll on his body was beginning to be become obvious. Exhaustion shook his limbs as he carefully pushed himself up. In the distance, over the ridge upon which he had stopped, Aramis could see a lonely homestead nestled up against the bare foothills of the Alps. It was the first sign of civilization he'd seen in the last few of days of his journey, hiking with painstaking care through unfamiliar, harsh terrain. Along with a little stone house, there was a pen outside for holding small livestock as well as a barn. Game was still rare at this time of year, not that it mattered much to him. Hunting with his firearms was out of the question, and he didn't have the time to set traps. As much as Aramis hated to steal dwindling winter stores from innocent people, there was no other way for him to find sustenance. Sending up a small prayer asking for forgiveness, Aramis made his way down the slope.

Settling himself against one of the trees on the edge of the homestead's clearing, Aramis huddled into his dark, ragged cloak and waited for evening to fall. Despite the holes and tears in the material, it was still a good, thick wool and provided a measure of warmth for which he was grateful. He dozed against the tree, attempting to rebuild some of his energy reserves. He jerked awake periodically, convinced that he could hear the sounds of dogs barking and hooves beating against the hard, frozen ground.

Once twilight deepened enough that Aramis was confident he wouldn't be spotted, he crept forward, shivering as he tried to stay warm in the rapidly cooling air. To his relief, he discovered cellar doors to the side of the cabin, providing access to the storage space from the outside. A thick stick inserted between the door handles was the only security protecting the food inside. It was clear that whoever lived on the homestead did not expect human thieves to raid their stores.

Sliding the stick out, Aramis carefully lifted one of the doors open. He quietly walked down the stone stairs, gingerly placing each step so as not to make a sound. The cellar was a small, cool space. Small, colorful jars of preserved fruits and olives, wheels of hard cheese and baskets of root vegetables lined the shelves. Barrels of wine were stacked up on the floor, while large hunks of salted, smoked meat hung from hooks bolted into the ceiling beams. His mouth watered at the sight of all the food laid out before him. The people that lived in the cabin had apparently had a very prosperous year.

Taking out his dagger, Aramis began to hurriedly shave off thick slices of meat. He shoved one into his mouth and nearly groaned out loud at the rich flavor that flooded his mouth. Cutting off a few more pieces, the marksman hastily stuffed them into one of the empty pouches on his belt. It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do. He grabbed a jar of purple fruit and slipped it into another pouch, and was eyeing the cheese when the sound of turning hinges caught his ear. A square of mellow light flooded down from the trap door above the ladder that stood in the middle of the room, and Aramis froze. His mind and limbs were still sluggish from fatigue and hunger, and while he knew he needed to get away, he couldn't seem to get his body to move.

A dark-haired woman carrying a small woven basket stepped down onto the ladder, and the sight of her finally spurred the marksman into action. Unfortunately, the sudden motion he made as he leapt for the staircase alerted the woman to his presence. She turned her head over her shoulder and screamed with startled fright when she saw him. The shock made her release her grip on the ladder, and she tumbled to the floor.

Aramis paused in his flight, torn between the urge to escape or to render aid to the fallen woman. The decision was taken from his hands when the woman began to yell, scrambling back towards the wall and away from Aramis.

 _"Thief! Matteo, there is a thief in our cellar!"_

Aramis scrambled back up the steps and into the frigid evening air. As he raced across the open glen, the stolen jar of fruit banging heavily against his hip, he heard shouts behind him.

" _Stop where you are!"_ An angry, male voice called out to him in Italian. " _Stop, thief!"_

Aramis heard the burst of a musket shot right before a burning sting bit into his right arm. Gasping in surprise, he stumbled briefly before wrenching himself upright. He absolutely could not afford to go down here. Keeping his eyes focused on the tree line, his chest heaving with exertion, Aramis kept running, ignoring the loud cursing behind him.

As soon as the shot had fired, a countdown had begun in marksman's head. If the man shooting at him was proficient, it would only take him about fifteen seconds to prime and load his weapon. Aramis simply had to make it back into the forest before then, and then pray that the man shooting at him would give up the chase.

 _Twelve, eleven, ten..._

Aramis nearly fell again as his feet slipped on a frozen puddle. He was close, so close...

 _Seven, six, five..._

He could feel his heart pounding, could hear his own harsh gasps as he ran as hard as he could. He was not going to get caught here. He was going to make it.

 _Three, two, one..._

Another shot followed him but it was too late. A tree to his right blasted out shards of bark and Aramis veered to his left. He wove through the thick tree trunks, his legs churning furiously as he raced uphill. Only when he crested the ridge did he stop, hands on knees as he tried to catch his breath in the thin mountain air. A glance over his shoulder showed him a large, dark shadow standing at the edge of a clearing, a musket in his hands. "I am sorry," Aramis whispered, watching as the man turned around and trudged back to his cabin. "I didn't want to do this."

Reaching into his pouch, Aramis plucked out another piece of dried meat and chewed on it slowly. He hadn't managed to take much, but it was better than nothing. He inspected his arm with shaking fingers and thankfully found that the wound was nothing more than a shallow graze. He would have to wash it, but it would not be debilitating.

Looking down the rocky slope, Aramis spotted a group of shadows in the distance, moving at pace along the valley floor. Aramis supposed it could have been anyone, or anything, but the leaden pit in his stomach told him that it was _them_. Despite the growing darkness, he thought he could make out the uniform of Spanish soldiers. They chased their quarry with a determination that bordered on obsessiveness. Aramis ducked his head to block out the sight and tried not to let despair overtake him. He'd been alone and hunted like a terrified rabbit for so long for that it seemed like he might never escape the pursuit and make it home. The memory of Paris and the garrison seemed like some hazy, summertime dream, warm and bright and completely unreal in this cold, hostile place. The marksman shivered, not knowing whether it was from the cold or from dread.

"I will make it," Aramis whispered. He wanted to believe it. "I will make it back to France." All he had to do was cross over the Alps undetected and back into his homeland. He'd see Porthos, Athos and all of his friends again. He'd feast on Serge's savory lamb stew with fresh bread and good French cheese, and he'd find comfort in the arms of the lovely Mademoiselle Lisette. Or Margot. Or Célia.

Or he would die trying.

* * *

 _Hello, and thank you for reading! I suppose this could be considered a follow-up to 'Irresistible Forces'. I hope you enjoy! :)_

 _Disclaimer: This is written for fun, not profit. None of the recognizable characters belong to me._


	2. Chapter 2

Tréville sighed as he re-read the tiny scroll of paper between his fingers, resisting the impulse to crumple it up and flick it out the window with a loud curse. He could feel a headache building in the back of his head, thumping against his skull and creeping down into his shoulders. It would be easy to second-guess himself, but Tréville firmly pushed his doubts away. He had made his decision, whether right or wrong, and it was time to see what his Musketeer's choice would be. _Although, it is no choice at all,_ the captain thought ruefully. He knew exactly what his man would say.

A knock on his door drew him out of reverie and he straightened in his seat as Porthos came in. The big man stood before him stiffly, resolutely staring into middle distance. Their relations had been chilly since Aramis' abrupt disappearance. Porthos did not know why Aramis had been sent away, but he knew that it had likely required Tréville's approval, no matter how reluctantly that approval had been given.

"You asked for me, Captain?"

"I did, yes." Tréville neatly folded the letter in his hands and deliberately set it on his desk. "I have news."

Porthos' eyes flickered towards Tréville and them resumed their fixed gaze on the wall. "About what?"

Tréville paused a moment before he responded. _Do I risk one man for the sake of another? Especially if that other man is as good as lost?_ He shoved away the doubts that crept in. "About Aramis."

This time Porthos' gaze landed squarely on the captain's face. "And?" Porthos' voice was neutral, but Tréville could see the tension in his Musketeer's shoulders.

"Things have not gone to plan."

"Of course they haven't," Porthos muttered disgustedly. "Where is he?"

"His last message said he was leaving Torino."

"Torino? You sent him back to Savoy?" Outrage laced the big man's words as his expression darkened.

"It was out of my hands," Tréville snapped. "His presence was requested and I was not in a position to refuse."

Porthos' face twisted into a snarl and it was a moment before he swallowed enough of his anger to speak once more. "So where is he now?"

The captain sighed. "I don't know. That is the problem. He indicated that he would be moving to Susa and then continue into France. That was a week ago. He should have easily made it to Susa by now, but there has been no word."

"Damn it," Porthos bit out sharply. "You would not be telling me this if you didn't think he was in trouble."

Tréville inhaled deeply, fighting down his own mounting frustration. It had been simmering ever since he'd been forced to turn over one of his best men for a mission he thought was ill-conceived. "Yes. Aramis had a partner on this assignment. We believe his partner is dead."

Porthos tilted his head down at the news and rubbed a tired hand over his face. When he looked back up, his expression was furious. "So what you are telling me is that Aramis is in hostile territory, missing and alone."

"Yes."

"You should not have allowed this to happen."

"It was out of my hands," Tréville repeated.

Porthos' eyes narrowed. "You are his captain. If you cannot keep him from such things, then who can?"

"Aramis is not a child to be protected, Porthos. He is a soldier and he serves France. He will go where his country needs him in whatever manner the Crown chooses, whether I agree with it or not." The captain wearily leaned back in his chair.

"You are going to send someone to look for him." Porthos framed the statement as a demand.

"No, I can't. What I am telling you right now is information that I should not even have, as I was excluded from the execution of Aramis' mission." Tréville clenched his teeth. The Cardinal's audacity knew no bounds. "An official extraction is out of the question. The current political situation between France, Savoy and Spain is too delicate."

Porthos lifted his chin in defiance. "I would like to request a leave of absence, effective immediately."

Something inside Tréville loosened. This was likely a mistake, but he refused to leave his man stranded in foreign lands, especially when that man should never have been there to begin with. It was a feeble gesture at best, and he ran a high risk of losing two of his best Musketeers. Should Aramis never return, however, Tréville suspected that he would lose Porthos anyway. "Request granted."

"I will need to borrow supplies from the garrison."

The captain nodded. "You are free to take what you need." He paused. "Porthos, I want you to fully understand that you will be on your own."

The big man shook his head. "I won't be on my own. I will have Aramis with me."

Tréville gave him a short nod. He could do nothing but admire Porthos' unwavering confidence. They discussed a few more details before Tréville dismissed his Musketeer. The captain watched as Porthos turned on his heel and walked briskly out of the office, his spine straight with purpose. Tréville had done what he could. Now, he would simply have to trust his men. The Musketeer captain picked up a quill and dipped it into a pot of ink, bending over a fresh scrap of paper. Perhaps it was time to reopen old lines of communication and call in some favors.

* * *

Porthos thundered down the stairs, taking them two at a time. His breath puffed in small clouds of white mist, hanging in the icy air. Porthos barely felt the chill, still suffused with the heat of his anger. He admired and respected his captain, but he feared he would have said or done something to regret if he'd stayed in Tréville's office a minute longer.

 _Damn it, Aramis._ There was no particular reason why he should be upset with his absent friend, but at the moment, Porthos was not feeling particularly selective as to where he lay his blame. _And damn you, Tréville. Damn you for keeping this from me._ He supposed there may have been good reasons as to why the captain would allow one of his Musketeers to be whisked away into foreign territory without a trusted comrade to watch his back, but Porthos could not think of any. None were good enough to justify sending Aramis back to Savoy without Porthos at his side.

The big Musketeer made his way back to his room and began to pack, cramming his belongings into several bags. He would need clothes, blankets, and trail rations. He would also have to stop by the armory to pick up as much ammunition and weaponry as he could realistically carry. Paris was still firmly in the grip of a prolonged winter, and Porthos was fairly certain that conditions would not improve near the mountains. Despite that, he would only be carrying the bare minimum, as he was more interested in traveling fast and light than traveling warm and safe.

A firm knock sounded at his door and Porthos jumped at the unexpected sound. Annoyed at the unnecessary interruption, he whirled to find Athos standing in the entryway.

"What do you want?" Porthos demanded.

Athos calmly considered him, his sharp blue eyes raking over the half-stuffed bags and gear piled up on the bed. The swordsman appeared completely unbothered by Porthos' steaming fury. He met Porthos' question with one of his own.

"Going somewhere?"

"Yes." The big Musketeer resumed his packing, his mind already plotting out the fastest route to Susa. He would need to exchange horses as often as possible to make sure his mounts were fresh and able to withstand the pace at which he planned to travel.

"What did Tréville want?" Athos sounded disinterested, as if he was asking about the availability of baguettes at the local bakery.

Porthos growled as he glanced over his shoulder. "I really do not have time for this."

Athos merely raised his eyebrows in the face of Porthos' mounting temper. The big man found Athos' flat steadiness to be both amusing and infuriating by turns, and at the moment, it was definitely irritating. "He had news about Aramis," Athos stated. It wasn't a question. "I am assuming it was not good."

Porthos sighed as he paused his frantic activity. Clearly, Athos was not going to leave. The man could unfortunately be as stubborn as Aramis. "Yes, he did, and no, it was not."

"So I ask again. Where are you going?"

There was another pause before Porthos answered. Even through the haze of his indignation, he was aware that Tréville had given him sensitive information. Now the question was whether he wanted to share that information. He warily watched as Athos joined him by the bed. The swordsman picked up items that Porthos had gathered and began to neatly place them inside Porthos' bags, patiently waiting for the big man to speak. A memory of Athos standing bloody and shaking, protecting Aramis' prone figure, flashed through his mind.

"To Savoy," he finally said. Porthos hated the way the word felt in his mouth. "A small town called Susa."

Athos frowned. "Tréville is sending you to retrieve Aramis from Susa?"

"No. Officially, Tréville is not doing anything, and I am simply taking a leave."

"I see." The swordsman glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes and Porthos could almost hear the gears turning in Athos' mind. "Would you care for some company?"

Porthos started at Athos' offer. It was quite unexpected. "What? Why?" he asked bluntly.

Athos shrugged nonchalantly. "I have had a strong, recent desire to visit Savoy and to see its mountains. I hear they are quite a sight this time of year."

Porthos raised an eyebrow as he considered the man beside him. Despite having Athos' company forced upon him by Aramis for nearly half a year, Porthos still had a difficult time understanding the man's motives and desires. Sometimes it seemed like he had none, and simply drifted wherever his orders took him. It had not taken long for Athos to earn his commission after his arrival at the garrison, and they had ridden out on several missions together in the past few months. Porthos could not deny that the man was a skilled fighter and had become a worthy Musketeer. If nothing else, he would be an excellent ally to have in a fight. Porthos reluctantly had to admit that Athos' help would raise his chances of finding Aramis and bringing him back to France, and at the moment, Porthos was willing to do almost anything to achieve said goal.

"You will have to clear it with the captain," Porthos finally said.

"I am certain he will not object," Athos replied with unruffled assurance.

"I'll be leaving as soon as I am done packing," the big man warned. "I'm not going to wait." The need to leave pounded urgently at Porthos, making him restless and sharp.

Athos nodded. "I will be ready." The swordsman hesitated before continuing. "Someone once told me that Musketeers watch each other's backs. As a fellow Musketeer, I will watch yours in Aramis' stead until we find him." Before Porthos could respond, the swordsman left to prepare for what would likely be a long and uncertain journey.

 _tbc_

* * *

 _Thank you to everyone who left reviews, I really appreciate it. And thanks for reading! :)_


	3. Chapter 3

_Warning: Brief, graphic description of violence ahead._

* * *

Aramis tugged at the edges of his hood, pulling it down low and tilting his head so that very little of his face would be visible to the casual passerby. He tried to minimize his tall frame by hunching his shoulders against the frigid wind, shrinking down into himself in an effort to make himself as unmemorable as possible. It took a concerted effort not to drag his feet as he walked along, his leaden limbs weighed down by exhaustion. He had reached Susa so much later than his contact expected that Aramis wasn't certain whether his message would be received and passed on, but he had left it as agreed. All he could do now was pray that something on this godforsaken mission would go his way.

The cathedral was large, much larger than Aramis would have expected for a town the size of Susa. It was not an elegant building, like so many of the churches in Paris with their ornate carvings and delicate spires, but was rather build like a fortress, square and resolute in the face of heavy snows and harsh weather. A flash of uncertainty made him pause, and he surreptitiously glanced about himself as he approached his selected sanctuary. A vagrant sat on the street at the corner of the cathedral, muttering to himself, and the other people in the street paid him no mind. Aramis craved a few moments of peace, and hoped that he would not be sacrificing his survival for such a brief, ephemeral bit of relief.

As he pulled open the heavy, unassuming doors and stepped inside, the warm scent of old wood and candle wax enveloped him. The inside of the cathedral was dimly lit by a few flickering torches hoisted along the colonnade and what seemed to be a thousand candles on every available flat surface. Breathing in deeply and muffling a cough into his fist, Aramis seated himself at one of the middle pews, hiding on the end where the shadows were most pronounced. Despite the sharp, nervous vigilance that had kept him alert and alive the past few weeks, the marksman eventually felt a profound sense of calm wash over him as he simply sat and rested, momentarily free from the immediate fear of being caught. Bone-deep fatigue worked against him and his head drooped forward, eyes slipping shut without his permission.

 _"This way!" Girard hissed at him from the mouth of the alleyway, waving him along. "Took you long enough."_

 _Aramis stepped in beside his partner and the two took off in a brisk walk. No running, as it would have attracted unwanted attention._

 _"Sorry," Aramis whispered. "Marques was very skittish. It took some convincing before he would agree to send our message."_

 _"And with good reason," Girard muttered. "God damn Bianchi. God damn that traitor to hell. I should have slit his throat when I had the chance."_

 _Aramis frowned. Perhaps it would have been better to let Girard murder the miserable man. They had been given no indication that Bianchi had turned, and when they had found out, it was too late. Girard had wanted to take a shot at the informant, but Aramis had insisted they run. There were too many enemies around them, and no allies. And run they had, fleeing like foxes in before a pack of bloodthirsty hounds._

 _The two men wound through the streets of Torino, and Aramis had no idea where they were going. It seemed as though they had been walking forever, and yet they never seemed to make any progress. Fear began to rise up inside of the young Musketeer, creeping up his throat and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. They walked and walked, and suddenly, the heavy sound of boots pounding against cobblestone began to follow them. In front of them, Spanish soldiers appeared, shaped by the dark mist swirling in the street._

 _"Aramis, run!"_

 _Aramis peeled off to his left. Girard followed. The marksman pulled out one of his pistols and fired into the darkness, watching as the ball tore through one of the soldiers. The soldier dissipated into a fine vapor, and Aramis watched in disbelief as it coalesced into two soldiers. Those two soldiers then multiplied into four, then eight, and before long, Aramis and Girard were completely surrounded. Aramis pulled out his other pistol and took another shot. Like the first, it failed to kill any of their enemies. The circle of phantom soldiers closed ranks, moving inexorably toward their targets, wicked shining blades held stiffly before them._

 _A hard shove pressed against his shoulder. "Over there. There's an opening. We might make it if we go now." Another push nearly sent Aramis staggering. He found his feet and charged at the soldiers, eyes widening as the sword points lowered and aimed straight at his heart. He tried to stop, tried to keep from skewering himself on those weapons, but something slammed into his back. His momentum carried him forward and his mouth opened to scream as metal flashed, seeking to take his life..._

 _And then he was through. The shock of it sent the marksman to his knees and he felt Girard take a hold of his arm, roughly pulling him up._

 _"We have to go, Aramis. We have to run!" The urgency in his partner's voice scraped at him but for some reason, he couldn't get up. He was tired. It felt as though he'd been running all day and all night._

 _"Aramis, get up, get up! We need to - " The words were suddenly cut off and something warm sprayed the Musketeer's face. Girard slowly toppled, his face wearing a blank look of surprise. His throat was torn open, pulsing a gruesome fountain of blood over his doublet and onto the dirty street. Aramis caught the man as he fell, his heart pounding hard enough to burst from his chest._

 _"No, Girard! Oh no, no no no..." Aramis continued to mutter as he stared helplessly at the lifeless body of his partner. His fingers fluttered around Girard's mangled neck as if to try and search for a pulse, but Aramis already knew it was useless. The man was dead. Aramis' hands were coated in his blood. He looked down to find that his shirt and breeches were dyed scarlet, as well. There was so much blood._

 _Out of nowhere, a Spanish soldier appeared in front of him. Aramis looked up as he stumbled backwards, away from certain death. The soldier's face was an unreadable blur as he reached out towards the marksman. His hand clamped down around Aramis' shoulder._

" _Are you in need of assistance?"_

Aramis jerked awake and he leapt to his feet before his muddled thoughts could crystalize. His hand wrapped around the grip on his knife and it was only sheer willpower and the snap realization of where he was that prevented him from whipping it out from under his ratty cloak.

"¿Cómo?" Aramis asked confusedly. The Spanish slipped out of habit.

The priest stepped back from him, clearly startled by Aramis' reaction. He was middle-aged man, his gentle face round and the outline of his expanding waistline visible beneath his woollen frock. He peered curiously at Aramis as he stepped forward once more, reaching out towards the marksman.

 _"I asked whether you needed help,"_ the priest repeated, switching from Italian to Spanish.

Aramis took a breath to reply and was immediately overcome by a fit of coughing. He held up a hand in apology as he turned away, fighting to regain control of his lungs. Freezing nights, constant stress and a lack of nourishment had all conspired against him. Aramis knew he was suffering from more than just exhaustion, but there was nothing he could do other than to ignore it and trust that it would not get worse.

 _"My apologies, Father,"_ he gasped once he'd swallowed the last spasm. _"I did not mean to startle you."_

The priest smiled. _"I rather think that I should be the one apologizing to you,"_ he said dryly. The other man continued to study Aramis, and the skittish marksman resisted the urge to pull up his hood and run. _"It seems that you have suffered some recent hardship."_

Aramis smiled at the priest, but he was certain it did not reach his eyes. _"Perhaps a little, but not more than I can bear."_ He sincerely hoped he was not lying to a priest.

 _"I see. That is a fine outlook that will serve you well. What is your name, my son?"_

 _"Renato."_

 _"I am Father Francis. Well, Renato. I was about to have my supper, and there is more than enough even for this growing belly."_ The priest rubbed his stomach ruefully. _"Would you care to share it with me?"_

 _"I - "_ Aramis stopped abruptly. The very mention of food made his mouth water. It was incredibly tempting, and not just because of the promise of a meal. After feeling like prey for so long, Father Francis' sympathetic face was almost impossible to refuse. Almost. The marksman shook his head reluctantly, ignoring the complaints from his empty stomach. _"Thank you for the kind offer, Father, but I should be going."_

 _"Are you certain? Our humble church offers refuge to all souls."_

Dread began to rise up in Aramis' throat and he pressed it down, silently berating himself for his own paranoia. The idea of spending the night within the warm confines of the church was alluring, but it would paint a target on the building and anyone within it. _"Yes, I'm afraid I must. I have duties to attend to. Thank you again."_ He pulled his hood up and with another smile, slowly walked away from the priest and back into the cold.

Aramis did not know how long he'd been inside the cathedral, but guessed that it must have been a few hours. The sun had still been above the horizon when he'd entered, and now it was well out of sight. He made his way to the edge of town, and was grateful to find an abandoned building within which he could take shelter. The building appeared to once have been a stable, as empty stalls lined each of the longer walls. More importantly, there was rotting straw still strewn within the stalls and more towards the rear of the building. Aramis made his way to a corner in the back and gathered the straw into a large pile. He then wrapped himself tightly in his cloak and burrowed into it, covering himself the best he could with the old stalks. The straw smelled of mold and animals long gone, but as he lay shivering in his makeshift bed, it gradually grew warm enough to thaw out his frozen limbs. Eventually, Aramis could no longer keep his tiredness at bay and drifted off.

* * *

He was dozing when shouts from below caught his ear. A single pistol shot soon followed, ringing sharply through the empty street. Cursing himself for a lazy bastard, Poulain scrambled up from his chair and stood by the window which he'd kept propped open. His breath puffed white in the watery, early dawn light and Poulain shuddered. The air coming in through the window was absolutely frigid. The cheap room at the inn across from the abandoned stables was a concession to the firm grip that winter still had on Susa. He owed Tréville a favor, but he certainly wasn't going to turn himself into an icicle whilst clearing his debt. The damn mountain village was already out of his own familiar territory.

What Poulain saw did not bode well for the Frenchman that he'd followed. Keeping himself hidden behind a curtain, he nudged the window open wider and peered down into the street. Spanish soldiers had surrounded the old building, and he saw one shabby-looking figure burst from the stable doors, followed by two well-fed soldiers. The first man looked pale and desperate, wielding a pistol in one hand and a dagger in the other. Bits of straw clung to his dark, unkempt hair and his cloak. His face was a mask of utter concentration, and Poulain could tell that the Frenchman had no intention of quietly surrendering.

 _"Lay down your weapons."_ One of the Spaniards was still mounted, and his horse pranced back and forth beneath him as if eager to join the fight. Poulain assumed that he was the leader. The man spoke quietly but with confidence. And why not? He had his quarry surrounded. _"Bianchi wants you alive, but I would not be terribly opposed to dragging back your dead body back to Milan."_

Tréville's man - Poulain could not remember what his name was and didn't really care - twisted his face into a snarl. _"Bianchi is a traitor."_

The Spaniard shrugged. _"That is not my concern. Lay down your arms."_

At this point, the Frenchman attacked, transitioning from stillness to motion in less than a heartbeat. His arm came up and he fired at the soldier on the horse. It was a shot taken at an impossible angle, and rather than hitting the man, the Frenchman's shot hit the animal instead. The horse went down heavily, spilling his rider onto the dirty street. A scream of pain and rage suggested that the Spaniard had likely not survived the fall unscathed. _"Do not let him escape!"_

With a whip quick motion, Tréville's man pivoted towards the enemy soldier to his right, ducked under the swing of the soldier's sword and surged upwards, driving his short blade into the enemy's belly. He tried to run then, but another Spanish soldier tackled the Frenchman from behind. He turned as he landed, shoving at the Spaniard and scrabbling backwards. The Spanish soldier refused to let go, however, and a hard punch to the Frenchman's face left him prone on the cold ground. The Spanish soldier clambered to his feet and delivered a hard kick to the dazed man's vulnerable center. Poulain winced at the choking grunt it drew from Tréville's man as he curled up in an effort to protect himself. The soldier drew his blade and swung it high, ready to sever the Frenchman's head when a barked order stopped him.

 _"No! Don't kill him, not yet. A quick death is far too easy. Tie him up, and we will bring him back for Bianchi to deal with as he pleases."_ The leader pushed himself to his feet, favoring his left leg. A sneer in the leader's voice implied that Bianchi's pleasure would mean pain for his quarry. He then ordered one of his soldiers to obtain a cart for transport.

Tréville's man put up resistance as the soldiers roughly bound his hands and feet, fighting like a wildcat. He was subdued with another brutal punch. Once the small caged wagon arrived, pulled by a sturdy-looking workhorse, the prisoner was thrown into the back. _"Be grateful that we are not going to drag you behind us all the way to Milan,"_ one of the soldiers muttered as he locked the gate on the cart.

The leader commandeered another soldier's horse and swung up into the saddle, using one arm as the other remained closely tucked into his side. _"Make haste,"_ he said. _"I want to return to civilization as quickly as possible."_ He wrenched his new horse around and expected the others to follow, which they did. The cart lurched into jarring motion as it rumbled after the soldiers.

Poulain bolted from the window and out of his room, down the stairs and into the street. Picking up the Frenchman's discarded pistol off the street, he slowed to a rapid walk and followed the Spanish contingent, keeping to the shadows and remaining unseen. Poulain lost sight of his target several times, but it did not matter as he knew exactly where they were headed. It had begun to snow again, so despite the leader's desire to move quickly, they would be hampered by the weather and the slow cart. He watched as the group of soldiers and the prisoner left Susa, carrying them away from any potential aid Tréville's other men would be able to provide. Poulain hoped that they would arrive soon. If not... then it wasn't his business and he could go on his way. He had done as Tréville had asked, and now it was simply a matter of waiting.

 _tbc_

* * *

 _Dialogue in italics is for any language other than French. As always, thank you so much for the kind reviews, and thank you for reading!_


	4. Chapter 4

Athos stared down into the snowy valley, peering through the scarf he had wrapped around his face under the hood of his cloak. The town of Susa lay below them, nestled against the foothills of the mountains between two merging rivers. It had taken over a week of hard travel from Paris and harrassment from Spanish mountain patrols to reach their destination, and now the strongest thing that Athos felt was the need to park himself in front of a blazing hearth to thaw his extremities. If it had been cold in Paris, then it was glacial in the mountains. Glancing at Porthos, Athos slowly followed the other Musketeer down the trail towards the town. No words were spoken between them, which suited Athos.

He still wasn't quite certain what had prompted him to accompany Porthos on this madman's journey. He recalled the surprised look on the big man's face when he'd offered, and he remembered feeling quite shocked about it himself. The rational part of Athos' mind knew that their chances of recovering Aramis were slim, and that he had most likely been taken prisoner. Or was dead. Porthos' faith in his friend's ability to survive was admirable, but ultimately misguided.

 _So why did you follow him all the way to this foreign land? To help him bring home a corpse?_ A vision of the marksman, pale and deathly still, flashed across Athos' mind. But the image wasn't of his dead body. It was from a few months ago, when he'd been captured by a small group of restless Huguenots. Athos knew without a doubt that if he had been the one to be swallowed by a mission deep in hostile territory, Aramis would have come for him, likely dragging Porthos in his wake.

In spite of himself, Athos liked Aramis. He found himself orbiting around both Aramis and Porthos, and each revolution brought him closer to the center where these two men lived, like water circling a drain. He supposed it was inevitable that he would eventually get drawn in, ensnared by Aramis' persistent charm and generous spirit. When the need for company struck Athos on rare moments, he knew that the marksman would welcome him without question. Porthos, on the other hand, had warmed to Athos in the past few months but still watched him a wary edge, as if he expected Athos to suddenly decide that he was too good for their company. The former comte suspected that Porthos might think the reverse was true if he knew about the ugliness that lay in Athos' recent past.

Another hour of travel and it was midafternoon when they reached their destination. It was a reasonably sized town, with its center dominated by a large squat church with a single high tower. It was a well-protected place, with mountains at its back and a large garrison by the river, both guarding Susa from enemies without and within. Despite the unpleasant weather, the streets were crowded with people engaging in their daily business, oblivious or uncaring of the fat snowflakes swirling in the air. Athos pulled his horse alongside Porthos as they rode down a broad avenue.

"Should we find an inn?" he asked, his voice muffled by his scarf.

Porthos gave him a sidelong glance and shook his head. "You can if you'd like. I am going to try and find Tréville's contact," he said. "Assuming he is still here." A scowl decorated Porthos' face, as it had for most of the journey to Susa. Unlike Athos, Porthos' head was uncovered save for his hat, and the swordsman was not certain that his companion even felt the cold.

"I can accompany you," Athos offered.

"No, we split up. I want to cover as much ground as we can as quickly as possible. If Aramis is here, we are going to find him." _If he is still alive._ Those words went unspoken. Porthos twisted around in his saddle, glancing at the buildings around them and frowning when he realized he could not read any of the signs. "Do any of these places look like a tavern?"

Athos performed a similar survey. His education had afforded him a rudimentary understanding of both Spanish and Italian, and he sincerely hoped that his command of either language would not be seriously tested. One swinging wooden plaque read "La Capra di Montagna" in large block letters with "cibo e birra" written in smaller script underneath. He pointed at the small stone building to which the sign was attached. "That seems promising," he said.

Porthos raised an eyebrow but refrained from commenting. Athos knew that both Porthos and Aramis suspected his noble background, and he had not disabused them of the notion. Athos was aware that he carried himself differently from commoners, and as much as he disavowed his past it was not something he could remove from his blood or his bearing.

"I will meet you at that place at sunset. We can decide what to do next then," Porthos said. With a short nod, Athos headed east as Porthos headed west, and the two Musketeers parted ways.

Athos headed towards the outskirts of town where the buildings thinned and the bustle of life became quieter. He housed his horse at a nearby stable, preferring to search on foot. Athos saw no reason to call attention to himself, especially if he was trying to find a fugitive. Tréville's account suggested that Aramis would have been alone and fleeing from capture for a week or two, and Athos realized that the odds of the marksman's survival would be low. However, despite the carefree exterior that Aramis presented to the world, Athos knew first-hand that a resolute survivor lurked under the marksman's jovial surface. The man had fought wars, endured massacres, and had managed to emerge on the other side with his innate decency intact. His own trials seemed petty and trivial by comparison, but he thought that Aramis might be the first to disagree should Athos ever divulge his past. _It is not a contest to see who can be most miserable, Athos,_ he could almost hear the marksman admonish. _Besides, who would want to win such a thing?_

The Musketeer wandered in and out of some buildings that appeared unoccupied, searching the corners and shadows for signs that might point to his missing comrade. He assumed that Aramis would have chosen to stay away from any inns or similar establishments to decrease chances of recognition and collateral damage. All Athos managed to find was a few beggars that had taken shelter from the cold.

As the sun began its descent, Athos made his way back towards the center of the town. A young woman approached Athos, her prematurely lined face covered with heavy makeup. She shivered in her skimpy dress and cloak even as she gave Athos a coy smile.

 _"You look like you need someone to keep you warm tonight, sir,"_ she purred, her voice surprisingly rich. Athos did not understand her words completely, but he certainly understood her intentions. As he looked past the girl, his gaze snagged on the imposing cathedral, and it loomed above them as if in disapproval of the prostitute's request. Athos shook his head in refusal and began to walk away before the working girl could respond. In times of trouble, Aramis would often seek comfort in his faith. Athos felt somewhat foolish that it had taken so long to recognize the most obvious potential refuge.

Pulling open the heavy wooden doors, Athos walked into the cathedral. He was not a religious man, but at the moment he was thankful for the opportunity to escape the gusting winds that swirled through the town. As he walked down the center aisle that cut between the rows and rows of well-worn pews, he could almost imagine Aramis doing the same. Despite his troubles, Athos had never considered turning to religion for guidance. He'd known too many pious hypocrites to find the notion appealing. Athos stared up at the sculpture of a crucified Christ that was displayed prominently above the altar. During his childhood he had watched as fellow noblemen prayed fervently under statues such as this even as they beat their servants and neglected their people. Athos found more honest comfort at the bottom of a wine bottle.

 _"May I help you?"_

A voice from from the darkness startled Athos from his contemplation. A round-faced man dressed in the robes of a priest emerged the shadows.

 _"Ah...perhaps you can."_

The priest looked at him consideringly. _"Your Latin is excellent."_

 _"Thank you."_ Athos didn't offer any explanation. His wariness of the church had not excused him from childhood lessons in catechism and Latin. He studied the priest, who looked at him with a relaxed and friendly expression. Athos wondered if he could trust the man, but then decided that any information about Aramis was worth the risk. His questions would not make the priest more or less likely to betray them, and if trouble was close, then knowing Aramis, he had already found it.

 _"What can I help you with?"_

 _"I am looking for a friend. Have you seen anyone recently that you do not recognize?"_

The priest smiled. _"Many travelers come through Susa. You will have to be more specific."_

 _"He is about my height, with dark, curling hair and dark eyes. He looks like he has Spanish blood."_

 _"But is French like yourself?"_ the priest asked shrewdly.

Athos was startled but thought he hid it well. _"Yes."_ He did not see any point in lying about it.

 _"Your Latin has a French flavor to it,"_ the priest explained. _"What is your friend's name?"_

 _"Aramis."_

The priest pursed his lips as he thought. _"I have not encountered anyone with such a name. However, there was a man in here that fit your description. He went by the name Renato; I thought he might have been a vagrant, but his manner indicated otherwise."_

Renato. It was close enough to Aramis' given name that he felt a sudden, wild hope surging within him. _"When? When was he here?"_

 _"Last night. I offered him shelter but he refused."_

Athos understood. _"Do you know where he went?"_

 _"I am afraid I do not. I'm sorry."_ The priest looked genuinely regretful.

It was unfortunate, but more than Athos could have hoped for. _"It is enough to know that he was here. How was he? Was he injured in any way?"_

The priest slowly shook his head. _"I did not see anything obvious, but he looked like a man that was in desperate need of a friend. I hope you find him soon."_

 _"I hope so too. Thank you for your help."_ Athos gave the priest a shallow bow and strode out of the church, anxious to share his news with Porthos.

He made his way back to La Capra di Montagna, noting that the sun had already set. Deep twilight settled over the town and the temperature had dropped several degrees. He entered the tavern and found that it was packed full. The rich smell of salted beef stew liberally seasoned with dried herbs assaulted his nose along with the sharp, fruity scent of alcohol. The establishment was small, but clearly popular. Athos found Porthos waiting for him at a table in the back, nursing a mug of ale and staring off into nowhere.

"You're late," he said as Athos approached.

"My apologies. I had good reason." Athos took a seat and was pleased to find that Porthos had already ordered food and wine for him. He poured a healthy measure of the wine into his glass and drank it all down. It had been a while since he had indulged, and the alcohol felt good as it slid warmly down his throat.

"Did you find something?" Porthos leaned forward, his voice low and urgent.

"A priest at the cathedral claims to have met someone last night who fits Aramis' description."

"Is he still there?" The big man was already half out of his chair as Athos rolled his eyes.

"I would not have come here alone if he had been," Athos said dryly.

"Damn." Porthos sat heavily. "Did he know where Aramis went?"

"No."

"Is he still in Susa?"

"I don't know."

"God, Athos. Did you find out anything useful?" Porthos asked, his expression profoundly irritated.

Athos raised an equally irritated eyebrow. "I know that he is still alive."

The big Musketeer exhaled loudly. "That he is."

"At least as of last night, yes. The priest seemed to think Aramis was whole and physically unharmed, but perhaps not in the best state."

Porthos heaved another big sigh and folded his arms on the table. He leaned over and bounced his forehead against his clasped hands. "Damn, damn, damn." Porthos looked up at Athos. "We should search the town again."

Athos picked up his spoon. "Eat, and then we can go."

The other Musketeer frowned impatiently at him. "How can you think of eating right now?"

The former comte took a bite of the slowly cooling stew. It was every bit as good as the smell promised. "We have not eaten all day. You will do Aramis no good if you're distracted by your hunger. This will take no longer than five minutes." As if to reinforce Athos' point, Porthos' stomach contributed a loud grumble.

With an unhappy glare, first at Athos and then at the bowl of steaming food, Porthos picked up his own spoon and began to shovel the stew into his mouth. Athos absently marveled at how quickly his companion could eat without choking.

"Did you find Tréville's contact?" Athos asked.

"No. I left a message, though."

"Will he know how to find us?"

Porthos shrugged. "I don't know. At least he knows we are here, now." The big man sighed as he threw his spoon into his empty bowl. "I'm worried," he muttered. The admission was significant.

"I am too," Athos replied softly. "But we will find him. We are close, Porthos."

Porthos inhaled deeply and nodded. It had been the right thing to say. Athos imagined that Aramis would have approved. "We will. If he is still alive, we will find him," the big man said firmly. "I know it."

Athos drained the rest of his wine and they left the tavern, intent on scouring the town once more before retiring for the night. A man approached them as they stepped back into the cold, although 'man' might have been a generous description. To Athos, he seemed more like a bundle of rags with arms and feet.

 _"Good night to you, sirs. Might I have a moment of your time?"_

Athos shook his head. We had a vague idea of what the beggar was saying, but was not interested in prolonging their interaction. He moved to push past the vagrant when a hand whipped out and gripped his arm tightly. Before Athos could free himself, the vagrant yanked and drew Athos in close.

"I have something that might be of interest to you." The whisper in his ear was spoken in perfect French.

"What did you say?" He snatched his arm away and took a step back. In a small corner of his mind, he noted that the beggar smelled clean, rather than of unwashed filth.

"You are looking for someone, correct?"

"Who the hell are you?" Porthos rumbled from behind Athos' shoulder.

The vagrant merely raised his eyebrows. His rags ruffled and revealed a pistol. It was not cocked nor was it held in a threatening manner. Moonlight gleamed on the elaborate weapon and Athos stiffened. He knew this gun.

With a growl, Porthos shoved Athos out of the way and took a fistful of the beggar's cloak. He lifted the man and pinned him against the cold stone wall of the tavern.

"Where did you get that? Answer me carefully, for your life depends on it," Porthos hissed through clenched teeth.

"It was left behind in the street. I merely picked it up," the vagrant said. He grinned at Porthos. "This is quite the reception. I thought you would be pleased to meet me."

"Who are you?" Porthos asked again. Athos could tell by the deepening of Porthos' voice that he was starting to become very agitated. It did not bode well for the man in his grip.

"Poulain, at your service," he grinned again. Athos could see the deep lines at the corners of the man's cold, cunning eyes. It was obvious at this point that Poulain was not a poor beggar. "I believe we have mutual acquaintances."

"You are Tréville's friend," Porthos said. He released Poulain, who landed lightly on his feet.

Poulain sniffed. "Hardly a friend. The man has had a leash around my neck because of some noble thing he did years ago. He has finally given me a way to be rid of it."

Athos ignored the man's explanation. "Where did you get that pistol?"

"Ah, yes." The man held it out, and Porthos snatched the weapon away, cradling it in his hands like a precious jewel. "I will tell you, but I can hardly think in the cold. There is a comfortable inn just down the street." With that, Poulain turned on his heel and walked away, clearly expecting Athos and Porthos to follow. The two Musketeers glanced at each other and took after the strange man.

The three men took refuge in small room on the second floor of the inn. Athos and Porthos waited impatiently as Poulain took the time to build a fire in the hearth. As annoyed as Athos was at the delay, he privately admitted that he was grateful for the warmth.

"There. Now we may speak openly." Poulain seated himself on the only chair in he room, pulling it close to the fireplace. The two Musketeers elected to remain standing.

"How did you come to possess Aramis' gun?" Athos folded his arms, staring flatly at Poulain.

"Aramis. That's what his name was," Poulain murmured to himself. "As I said, I found it in the street. Your friend Aramis dropped it when he was attacked."

Athos felt his stomach lurch sickeningly. "He was attacked?"

"Yes. Captured. Thrown into a cart and hauled back to Milan like a lamb to be slaughtered for a feast."

"By whom?" Porthos was practically vibrating with tension.

"By Spanish soldiers, working for someone named Bianchi, apparently. They seemed quite eager to catch him."

Athos frowned. "And you know this how?"

"I watched it all from a window. It had an excellent view."

"You didn't help him?" The fury in Porthos' voice was clear, and Athos couldn't disagree with it.

Poulain scoffed. "Of course not. Two against eight are no better odds than one against eight."

"So you simply let him be captured? You didn't even try? You coward!" Porthos' fists clenched and Athos could sense impending violence.

Poulain's cheery demeanor vanished in an eyeblink. "You listen to me, Musketeer," he said flatly. "If your friend was stupid enough to be caught, that is not my problem. I owe him nothing, and I owe you nothing. All I owe is a favor to Tréville, and by sitting here and passing on this information, I have fulfilled my obligation. Be grateful for what I am giving you."

A long moment of silence stretched between the three men. Poulain calmly sat back in his chair with his hands folded while Porthos glared daggers at the ragged man. The big Musketeer's chest was heaving with rage.

"I am assuming Aramis was still alive," Athos finally said. He held his breath until Poulain answered.

"Of course he was," the spy said disdainfully. "They would not have bothered with the wagon if he hadn't been."

"Do you know which trail they took?" Athos asked.

Poulain shrugged. "There is only one trail east that can be traveled by a cart. It goes to Torino."

Athos glanced at Porthos and discreetly placed what he hoped was a comforting hand on his arm. "We know where they are going. We know where Aramis is. We will get him back, Porthos." The big man did not respond but he also did not shake Athos' hand off, which the swordsman decided to take as a positive sign. "Porthos."

"We leave tonight. I want to get to Aramis as quickly as possible."

Poulain laughed derisively. "You are just as likely to kill yourselves wandering around in the night. These mountains are not kind to travelers at this time of year. Especially when those travelers are soft and inexperienced."

"I am not leaving him in the hands of those soldiers for a minute longer that I have to," Porthos growled.

Poulain airily waved his hand. "Go on, then. Whether you live or die is no concern of mine."

Athos studied the strange little man. "Would you be willing to come with us?" Porthos was a fine warrior, and Athos was confident in his own skills, but he had to agree with Poulain. Two against eight, especially in unknown terrain, were not favorable odds.

"Absolutely not," Poulain immediately replied. "But I will give you a piece of advice. Wait until tomorrow morning. The Spaniards will have stopped for the night, and they will move at a snail's pace because of the prisoner cart. Even with a day's head start, you can overtake them easily, but not if you are fumbling around in the dark. Visit the stables on the west side of the town. They have fine horses that can carry even the greenest of riders safely through these mountains." Poulain stood and stretched. "As pleasant as this has been, I have other, more important matters to attend. If you manage to somehow survive and return to Paris, tell Tréville that we are done and that I never want to hear from him again." With that, the bundle of rags whisked himself from the room and slammed the door shut as he left.

"What an odd and unpleasant man," Athos murmured. He turned to Porthos. "He does make a good point, however."

Porthos' hands clenched into fists. "I don't want to wait."

"Neither do I. But we will do Aramis no good if we are dead. Or lost."

"We took too long. We shouldn't have stopped at that damn garrison. We would have gotten here on time if we hadn't."

Athos suppressed a sigh. He and Porthos had stopped at the garrison in Briançon to rest and restock some of their supplies. Could they have made it to Susa before Aramis was captured if they had not? "We are only a day behind, Porthos, and we know where they are taking him. We are close, but we will not be of any use if we are lost. Or dead."

Porthos blew out a breath, angry fire still dancing in his eyes. "Fine. We leave at dawn."

The comte nodded in agreement. He doubted either of them would be getting much sleep that night.

 _tbc_

* * *

 _Thanks for reading!_


	5. Chapter 5

Porthos stared at the small procession from behind a large, black tree trunk. Four horses trudged side by side head of a caged wooden cart and two horses remained behind. The cart was driven by a seventh man. Poulain had said eight; he assumed Aramis must have killed one and felt a fierce stab of pride for his missing brother. He longed to run out and to attack the traveling party, but a small voice in the back of his mind firmly insisted that it would be stupidly suicidal. The voice sounded uncomfortably like Athos. He glanced to the side and gave his companion a glare. The swordsman caught his eye for a moment.

"Do not even think about it," Athos whispered. Porthos scowled.

The two men turned away and returned to the horses that had been tied up further into the woods. "How much further?" Porthos asked.

"Perhaps another half-kilometer or so," Athos replied.

Porthos sighed before heaving himself up into the saddle. Every step they took felt like one too many. If that little bastard Poulain was correct, then he would be in the cart. It bothered him to no end that he could not even catch a glimpse of Aramis, that he could not see for himself that his friend was still alive.

Despite his distaste of Tréville's contact, Porthos had to grudgingly admit that the man was right about the mountain territory. They had ridden off the main trail, which snaked along the bottom of a deep, narrow valley between jagged, white-capped peaks. Fresh snow, which had fallen heavily through the night, covered the land in a thick blanket that nearly reached Porthos' knees. Beneath the powdery white, layers of older snowfall had packed and frozen into unstable sheets. Their borrowed horses, as hardy and surefooted as they were, struggled through the difficult terrain. Despite their slow pace, they had still caught up to the Spanish soldiers as Poulain had predicted. The wagon that rolled along at the rear of the convoy constantly slipped and became stuck in the snow. Shouts of frustration echoed in the air each time it did so. Porthos absently wondered how long it would have taken for the soldiers to give up on the cart and to simply sling their prisoner over the back of a horse.

The two Musketeers pushed their mounts forward, urging them to pick up speed despite the dangerous footing. They were aiming for a section in the main trail that curved between a very narrow passage of steep, icy banks. Athos had scouted ahead and had declared it their best opportunity. The natural channel would force the convoy into a single row, and it would help prevent the Musketeers from becoming surrounded during the attack. Porthos had wanted to meet Aramis' captors head on, but Athos had balked.

"There are only seven of them," Porthos had pointed out when Athos had returned from his ride.

"And there are only two of us," Athos returned.

"Three. Aramis is in that cart."

"We have no idea what condition Aramis is in. If he is injured or in anything less than fighting condition, he will not be of any help. If anything, he will be a hindrance."

Porthos' face flushed. The nobleman beside him obviously had not learned much in the past few months. "Aramis is always in for a fight," he grit out. "And he is _never_ a hindrance."

Athos sighed. "That is not what I meant. Regardless, you cannot argue that if he is injured, our primary goal will be to get him to safety as quickly as possible. We cannot do that if we have to fight seven men at once," he said patiently.

In the end, they had decided to split their meager forces. When they reached the bend, Athos hid himself on the northern slope, while Porthos hid himself on the southern side of the trail. Porthos knew that the swordsman would be hidden up high with two arquebuses and two pistols loaded and ready to fire. Between the two of them, they both agreed that Athos was the better shot. _It should be Aramis up there,_ Porthos thought sourly. Having Athos firing from a perch did not inspire the same sense of confidence.

Porthos waited, his eyes locked onto the mountain pass. Adrenaline was singing in his veins, urging him him to _go go go._ Instead, he held himself still. The only motion he made was the rise and fall of his chest as he took deep breaths, creating little white puffs in the cold air. He needed to wait for the right moment. After what seemed like an eternity, the party of soldiers finally rode into view, slowly snaking along the trail, and Porthos tensed. A few minutes later, a loud bang exploded through the silence, echoing in the narrow channel. One of the soldiers slumped on his horse and then fell to the ground, limp and unmoving. His own horse trampled the dead man's body as it pranced uneasily to the side. A shocked, quiet beat of confusion was broken by loud, unintelligible screams.

Another shot ripped through the group of soldiers as they attempted to organize themselves. The ball winged the soldier riding in front, and he ducked down on his horse, clutching at the bloody wound as he shouted angrily, gesturing wildly at the surrounding trees. Gunfire sounded once more; the sound was different, and Porthos assumed that Athos had switched over to a pistol. No one appeared to be hit, but the damage to the soldiers' nerves had already been done. Slowed by the limited amount of space, four of the Spaniards finally wheeled away, thundering up the northern slope towards Athos' hiding spot. It left only two men for Porthos to deal with.

He waited for another few seconds, until the four soldiers were well away, before emerging from the woods and rushing towards the cart. Pistol in hand, he silently urged his horse to move faster. The snow muffled the sound of his approach and the two remaining soldiers, who were staring intently at the direction in which their comrades had disappeared, did not see him until it was nearly too late. He leveled his pistol and fired at the soldier driving the cart, and his surprised cry was cut short as Porthos' shot took him square in the chest. The man toppled over as the other Spaniard whirled his horse around to face the big Musketeer.

Porthos drew his schianova and swiped at the remaining Spanish soldier. His adversary had drawn as well and lifted his own sword to block the swinging strike. Porthos' blade was heavier and longer than the light rapier that the other soldier carried, however, and the force of Porthos' worry and anger infused his attack with extra power. His schianova swept through the Spaniard's parry and the sharp blade sliced through the man's sword arm and his chest. Despite his scream of pain, the man maintained his grip on his weapon and ducked away from Porthos' reverse swing. He pulled his horse back, retreating out of range and shouting loudly. Porthos had no idea what the man was saying, but the Musketeer assumed that he was calling for help. With a growl of frustration, Porthos pressed forward. His time was very limited - Porthos needed to end this and free Aramis as quickly as possible.

As finesse had never been his strong suit, Porthos simply smashed his blade at the other man until he broke through the soldier's defenses. Overwhelming the Spaniard with his superior strength, Porthos used his greater reach to beat his opponent into submission. The soldier finally succumbed, gurgling blood as Porthos' sword crashed through his neck. Even as the dying man slid off his horse, Porthos jumped from his own, racing for the back of the cart.

"Aramis! Are you in there? Can you hear me?"

A rasping voice answered him. "Porthos? My God, is that you?" A profound sense of relief flooded Porthos, nearly bringing him to his knees.

Thin, shaking fingers curled around the bars that created a moving prison out of a simple cart, and a hollow face pressed into the space between the metal shafts. Pale skin was bruised purple, and one eye was nearly swollen shut under a tangle of wild, dark hair. Porthos swallowed back his fury as he took in Aramis' appearance. He might have failed to recognize this ragged man as his old friend were it not for the single wide, brown eye that stared at him in utter disbelief.

"It is. We are going to get you out of here." Porthos ripped off his gloves and fumbled with his picks as he tried to open the padlock that kept the door chained closed. As much as he would have preferred to have simply hacked at the thick chains, it would have taken too much time.

"We?"

"Athos is with me."

"Athos?" Porthos spared a glance at his brother at the confused question. Aramis looked dazed, and Porthos felt his chest tighten with worry.

"Yes, Athos. Blond, blue-eyed, frigid but good with a sword." The big Musketeer felt a flash of victory when the lock finally gave way to his skill. He threw the hunk of metal away and rapidly unwound the chain around the bars.

"I know who Athos is," Aramis said. "I do not mean to sound ungrateful, but how is this possible? How on earth did you find me?"

"I will tell you later." Porthos yanked the cart door open and Aramis fell back, twisting awkwardly and landing on his side with a grunt. His wrists and ankles were tightly bound with rough, heavy rope. Porthos slashed through them with his main gauche and hauled Aramis to his feet, pulling his brother into a brief but fierce embrace. The marksman wrapped his arms around Porthos' ribs, squeezing back tightly.

"Thank you," Aramis whispered. "Thank you, brother."

Porthos nodded silently. The marksman felt like a bundle of twigs in his arms, and he had to tamp down on another swell of rage. Now was not the time.

Porthos and Aramis jumped from the cart and Porthos took stock of their situation. They were alone for the moment, but judging by the cries that echoed through the valley, Porthos thought that would change very soon.

"Where is Athos?"

"He drew the soldiers away from here." Porthos cursed when he saw that the dead Spanish soldier's horse had fled. He thought about unhitching the carthorse, but immediately discarded the idea. It would take too long and the horse would be too slow.

"Is he all right?" Concern laced Aramis' voice and Porthos almost laughed. If a mirror had been available, he would have placed it in front of the marksman's beaten face.

"Let's go find out."

The two men hastily heaved themselves onto Porthos' horse. Aramis bent forward and pat the animal's neck as if in apology. He twisted in the saddle and glanced at the big man behind him. "Do you have a weapon I can use?"

Porthos drew out the pistol that he and Athos had taken from Poulain. Aramis' good eye lit with joy when he saw it. He flashed Porthos a quick smile. "My hero."

The big Musketeer grunted in response, rolling his eyes even as he jerked the horse's head to the side. He kicked his heels into the animals' flanks and she lurched under him, leaping into motion despite the weight of two riders on her back. Porthos could feel the horse's hooves slip beneath her before she found her footing and began to gallop away. He glanced behind his shoulder and counted three soldiers congregating around the empty wagon. _Athos only killed one?_ Sick anxiety suddenly flooded his mouth, leaving behind a bitter taste.

They rode at a frantic pace along the valley floor, heading towards the rendezvous point that he'd agreed on earlier with Athos. They'd traveled about fifty meters when the pop of a musket firing could be heard. Something slammed into Porthos' back, catching him high on the shoulder. It threw him forward and knocked him into Aramis, who looked back with a startled expression.

"Porthos?"

The big Musketeer opened his mouth but the only thing that came out was a pained grunt. Fire began to lick at his back and his arm as his fingers went nerveless. Warm liquid started to soak into his shirt, spreading rapidly under his leather doublet.

"Porthos? What's wrong? Answer me!" Aramis turned again this time he raised his pistol. He fired it and cursed.

Porthos could hear the rising panic in his friend's voice and he wanted to respond but couldn't find the air to do so. It took all his might to simply hang on, to stay on the back of the horse, to stay upright, to protect his brother. If he faltered now, they would be captured. _I can do this. I have to do this._

Black mist began to invade the edges of Porthos' vision. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but it persisted and began to slowly creep inward. He could feel his heart beating rapidly - too rapidly - as it struggled to deal with the sudden shock of the wound. Porthos had always prided himself on his strength, and now it was being slowly sapped from his limbs, leaching out of his body along with his blood. Despite his best efforts, he knew that he would not be able to hold on for much longer.

He thought he could hear the marksman murmuring something, but the words did not make any sense. With agony painting his back and making it difficult to breathe, Porthos tried to apologize to Aramis. _Find us, Athos. Find him. Help him._ With that final thought, his consciousness finally slipped away and he followed it down into darkness.

 _tbc_

* * *

 _Well, that probably could have gone better. Thank you to everyone that left a review, and thanks for reading!_


	6. Chapter 6

"You will be fine. Stay with me, Porthos. Please. Stay with me. You'll be fine." Those words had become Aramis' mantra as his world narrowed to the horse underneath him and the slumping man at his back. It helped him to keep the panic at bay, and to shore up his courage.

"You'll be fine. Stay with me."

Something was terribly wrong. The moment he heard the report of musket fire behind them and felt Porthos jerk against him, Aramis knew for certain that Porthos had been hit. When his friend had failed to answer his frantic questions, dread had begun to tighten like iron bands around his chest. The only question now was the severity of the wound. Guilt began to chew away at his roiling stomach as they rode on, and Aramis swallowed hard in an effort to push down his nausea.

Aramis felt Porthos' weight grow heavy on his back, and he realized that his brother was about to lose his battle against unconsciousness. Aramis had taken the reins from Porthos' slack hands and he now pulled up on them, forcing their horse to skid to a halt. He bent forward as low as he could as he awkwardly dismounted. His feet sank into the powdery snow just in time to see Porthos sag sideways. On a better day, Aramis might have been able to catch the big man and gently ease him down. As it was, the best he could do was to cushion Porthos' fall with his own body as they both hit the ground.

"Porthos?" Setting aside the pain that flared through his ribs, Aramis gently rolled his friend off and pushed himself up, settling on his knees. Cold leached in through the thin material of his breeches, freezing the skin underneath. He pressed his lips together, muffling the harsh cough that rattled his lungs. The white clouds puffing from Porthos' nose told him that his friend still lived. Pulling the big man up against him, Aramis began to gently and quickly prod at the unconscious man's back. His fingers came across the hole in the leather doublet and a patch of damp wetness almost immediately.

The wound was high on the back of Porthos' right shoulder, and the size of the wet stain on the leather doublet told Aramis that it had already bled heavily. Clamping one hand against the hole to try and stem the bleeding, he used the other to search for an exit wound. There was none.

"I'm sorry, Porthos," Aramis whispered. "I am so sorry. You shouldn't have come." He tore off two long strips from the edge of his cloak and wadded one up. "You should have stayed in Paris." Pressing it firmly against the wound, Aramis used the other to securely wrap Porthos' shoulder and to hold the cloth in place. Bright speckles of red marred the endless white around them, and Aramis' mind was suddenly wrenched back to the past year, when the deaths of his comrades had similarly stained sparse patches of snow under their still bodies. _Not again. Please, not again._ Aramis shook his head, banishing the memories to the back corner of his mind. He really, really hated Savoy. The place caused him nothing but pain.

Aramis glanced up at the horse that was standing patiently at their side, her sides heaving with exertion. He was acutely aware that they could not linger here. Even three soldiers could cause a world of trouble should they continue their pursuit of the Musketeers, and Aramis had no doubt that they would. The horse's back seemed impossibly high, and Aramis despaired at the thought of trying to lift his friend's heavy, limp body back onto the animal. It needed to be done, however. If he could get Porthos back on the horse, then he could send the animal on her way. His mind whirled dizzily with possibilites. The Spaniards only wanted him, not Porthos. If he stayed, then perhaps they would let his brother go free. Porthos did not have to die here.

Aramis staggered to his feet and bent down to lift the other Musketeer. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he was forced to pause with his eyes closed until the ground stopped tilting beneath him.

"Aramis? What happened?"

Aramis' eyes snapped open and he found Athos before him, staring down at him from his horse with a rare look of open confusion and concern on his face. Relief flooded through Aramis as he watched Athos dismount and rush over to the two downed Musketeers. In another unusual gesture, the swordsman clapped Aramis on the shoulder, his comforting grip firm and familiar.

"It is good to see you," Athos said, the words heartfelt and his eyes warm. Aramis reached up and clasped Athos' forearm, clutching it tightly in a wordless, thankful greeting. Suddenly, Aramis' task seemed a little less daunting. Releasing his grip on the marksman, Athos crouched in front of Porthos, lines of worry appearing between his brows. "What is wrong with him?"

"He was shot during our escape," Aramis murmured.

"How bad is it?"

"Bad enough." Aramis took a deep breath of dry mountain air and coughed. "We need to go, Athos. You need to take Porthos away to safety."

Athos frowned even as he moved to help Aramis lift the unconscious Musketeer. "We will all ride to safety. We came here to get you, and we are not leaving without you."

"No." Aramis blinked heavily, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. His head felt as though someone had replaced his brains with a small wad of wool. "They want me. Once they have me, they will leave you in peace. It is the only way - " The rest of his statement was abruptly interrupted as Athos roughly grabbed the front of his cloak.

"Stop this foolishness, Aramis," Athos ordered. Rather than the harshness Aramis had expected, the words were surprisingly gentle. "We either go together or we do not go at all. Failing to bring you home will wound Porthos as painfully as any lead ball. You know this."

Aramis looked down, unable to hold Athos' honest gaze. The past few weeks had been terrible, but the very thought of losing Porthos - or Athos - to this frozen wasteland was worse than anything he'd suffered thus far. As much as he wanted to argue, to yell at Athos and to force them both away, he simply did not have the energy for it. And it would have taken a lot - he was coming to learn that Athos was a deceptively and deeply stubborn man. Silence stretched between them and Athos gave the marksman a little shake. "Aramis? We need to go."

Aramis blinked again. He was not going to lose Porthos here. _Not like Girard. Not like twenty Musketeers on a training maneuver._ "Let's move."

With a wary nod, Athos stepped back. His critical eyes raked over Aramis and the marksman guessed that the view was very unimpressive. "Do you think you can help lift Porthos onto my horse?" the swordsman asked.

Aramis reached into his reserves and drew himself up. "I can take him."

Rather than disagreeing as Aramis expected, Athos merely raised an eyebrow, a grave look on his face. "I will protect him, Aramis. I promise."

With a long, shaky breath, the marksman finally nodded. Athos mounted and with Aramis' help, heaved Porthos' slack form onto his horse. Once Porthos was settled as comfortably as possible in front of Athos, he gestured for Aramis to get on his own horse. They were prepared to go not a moment too soon; Aramis' sharp ears picked up on the sounds of muted hoofbeats heading their way. As they kicked off in a white spray of snow, Aramis could feel his heart pounding, steadily pumping adrenaline through his veins. Despite the jolt that it gave him, he felt slow, stifled. He was still trying to wrap his mind around a reality that had suddenly shifted when Porthos had unexpectedly freed him from his captors. Things were moving too quickly, slipping in a direction that made fear bloom in his belly. He kept his gaze locked on Athos' back, afraid that the other Musketeers would disappear if he blinked. _Perhaps that would be for the best,_ Aramis thought, briefly closing his eyes. If given a choice, he thought he would prefer to die alone in a Spanish prison than to see his friends go down by his side.

* * *

Athos squinted as he peered ahead, trying to see through the darkness. Night had fallen rapidly, and they had been forced to slow to a walk to save their horses from any fatal missteps. Although icy wind ruffled the edge of his hood, Athos barely felt it, as the exposed skin on his face had long gone numb. He felt Porthos stir once more, and he tightened his grip. Blood loss or not, Porthos was still a strong man.

"Porthos, please relax. It's Athos. You are safe." He pitched his voice low, trying to sound as soothing as he could manage. They did not need another mishap like the one they'd struggled through earlier.

"What?" Porthos mumbled as his head fell back against Athos' shoulder.

"It's Athos. Stay calm, you will be fine."

"I know who you are," came the testy reply. Athos might have smiled if their circumstances were less dire; it would appear that Porthos was more lucid than the last time he'd surfaced. "What happened? Where's Aramis?"

"Aramis is behind us." Athos craned his head around to peek behind his shoulder. He could see the dark silhouette of rider and horse about five meters behind. He noted with some concern that the rider appeared to be drooping over the horse's neck. "You were shot while fleeing from the soldiers that held Aramis captive."

"That explains why my back feels like I was stabbed with an icepick," Porthos muttered. He groaned as he shifted in the saddle. "You all right?"

"I am fine." His initial position above the procession of soldiers had been excellent; it had provided ample cover and was difficult to reach from the main trail. Once the Spaniards had ridden away from the prisoner cart, Athos waited until they had traveled a good distance up the slope, fired his pistol once more. His line of sight had been compromised by the movement of the soldiers, but his shot had startled one horse, who had stepped awkwardly to the side and had thrown its rider into a tree. The soldier had failed to get back up. Athos had ridden away then, easily evading the rest of the soldiers.

Upon reaching their rendezvous point, Athos had been concerned to find himself alone. That concern had rapidly grown into alarm as he waited for Porthos and Aramis, his mind persistently replaying the sound of shots fired down in the valley. After a few moments of indecision, he had spurred his horse into motion once more and had frantically ridden back towards the ambush point, hoping against hope that everything was fine. It had been quite a shock to stumble upon a beaten and bruised Aramis trying to lift a limp Porthos from a patch of crimson-stained snow. The elation that he had felt at seeing Aramis alive had mingled uncomfortably with his distress at finding Porthos bloody and unconscious. A relatively simple ambush and escape had suddenly become very complicated.

"How is Aramis?"

"I do not know." The marksman had looked rough and unhealthy, too thin and worn out. Athos had nearly failed to recognize the man when he had first encountered them. Despite it all, he had been standing on his own two feet - whole, breathing, and alive – which had been more than could be said about Porthos. "We will need to stop soon. We must to see to your wound."

Porthos grunted in response, which Athos decided to interpret as an affirmative. He drew his mount to a halt and waited for Aramis to catch up. The comte had not seen or heard any signs of their pursuers in the past hour. With the plummeting temperatures, Athos thought that the cold would be a greater enemy than the Spanish soldiers.

"Is something wrong? Is it Porthos again?" Aramis' voice sounded weary and scratchy, as if he'd swallowed a handful of broken glass.

"What do you mean, 'again'?" Porthos rumbled.

"Porthos? Are you truly awake this time?" Aramis pushed his hood back off his face.

"Yeah. Why, did something happen?"

"Nothing we could not handle," Athos stepped in smoothly. He did not need Porthos and Aramis arguing over something that was already done and past. "We need to look for shelter. Or at the very least, find some place to stop for the night."

"Should have looked before it started getting dark," Porthos grumbled. He was not the most gracious person when in pain, Athos was coming to find. Not that he could blame the man.

Athos shrugged. "Perhaps. I thought we might still be overtaken, but I do not believe we need to worry about that at the moment."

Aramis cast his eyes about as though he hoped to find a conveniently located cabin nearby. "There might be some caves up that way," he said, pointing. Athos strained to see anything in the gloom.

"Do you see something?" he finally asked.

"There is a series of stacked cliffs," Aramis said. He coughed into his fist and cleared his throat before continuing. "The face of the stone looks fairly jagged, and there are plenty of boulders. I think there is a good chance we will find something suitable."

Athos shook his head, marveling at the marksman's keen eyesight. He supposed it was a requirement for Aramis' specialty. "I will take your word for it," Athos acquiesced.

He allowed Aramis to lead the way as he could not see the formations that Aramis described. After struggling up a rough, steep trail, they thankfully found a cavern entrance that was was cut into the cliff face. The narrow opening widened into a cave that was not particularly deep, but wide enough to shelter three men and two horses. Several boulders guarded the entry point, shielding it from wind and hopefully from predators, both the animal and human kind.

Once Porthos was settled on the cavern floor and covered up in blankets, Athos braved the cold once more and gathered an armful of wood. Most of it was wet, but he'd managed to find a large, rotting log that was dry on the inside. Tinder and a strike of flint led to a small fire that glowed with warm life within the cave. It crackled quietly, offering cheer in a place where there was little to be found. Aramis placed a small tin pot filled with snow on the edge of the fire. Athos grimaced; he knew what would be coming next.

"Porthos?" Aramis crouched down by Porthos' still form and placed a gentle hand on the prone man's shoulder. "Are you with me, brother?" The flickering firelight served to deepen shadows, transforming the sharp lines of the marksman's bruised face into something grim and skull-like. He suddenly turned away and buried his mouth in the crook of his elbow. A series of deep, barking hacks escaped from him, and Athos frowned.

"Are you ill?" he asked.

Aramis waved away the question as he spat in disgust. "It will pass," he gasped. "Would you be so kind as to place your dagger in the flames?"

Athos let the moment go as they had more urgent matters to attend and did as Aramis asked. He then went and crouched by the other Musketeer's side. The marksman glanced at him. "You would not happen to have any wine?"

The comte shook his head regretfully. If only he did. "I have been dry since before we reached Susa and haven't had to time to replenish," he said.

"That is tragic indeed," Aramis murmured with a small, sympathetic smile. "Will you help me get Porthos up?"

The two men maneuvered their third into a sitting position despite his complaints and grumbles, and Aramis rapidly undid the makeshift bandage then stripped Porthos of his doublet and shirt. His brow furrowed as he examined the raw-looking wound, carefully palpating the muscle around the injury. "I will have to remove the ball," he announced. "It is not too deep, but we cannot risk leaving it in and causing more damage."

"I was afraid you would say that," Porthos said groggily. "This is the worst part."

"Worse than being wounded in the first place?" Aramis tsked as he helped to ease his friend onto his belly on a blanket laid out by the fire. "I believe the blood loss is beginning to affect your reasoning, my friend."

Aramis moved the bubbling pot of water away from the fire and pulled out a tightly rolled wallet from one of the pouches on his belt. The small leather envelope held needles of different sizes as well as coils of tough thread and a pair of fine forceps. Aramis smiled when he caught Athos staring at the tools.

"I learned a valuable lesson during our little escapade," he said lightly. "Now I keep these on my person at all times."

Athos nodded, recalling the ugly stab wound Aramis had suffered while delivering missives on behalf of the king. Their horses had been frightened off, and it had only been luck that Aramis had saved the saddlebags that carried his needles. Athos pulled his blade from the fire and allowed it to cool, watching in silent, morbid fascination as Aramis cleaned his tools and prepared to treat Porthos' wound. The marksman's newfound determination to learn a medic's trade was proving to be unfortunately useful.

"I'm sorry, Porthos. This will hurt, but I must ask you to remain still."

The big man nodded silently, his eyelids at half-mast.

Aramis bent over Porthos' back and slowly, delicately inserted the tip of Athos' knife into the wound. The big Musketeer's hands clenched into tight fists and his eyes squeezed tightly shut. A deep, agonized growl rose up from his chest, and Aramis firmly pressed his hand against Porthos back. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispered. Aramis dug in deeper, trying to work as quickly as he could as fresh blood spilled from the ragged hole, but it was no use. Porthos bucked under his hold and rolled his side, his arm reflexively swinging. The back of his hand caught the marksman in the jaw and knocked him over. The dagger Aramis held clattered to the ground.

"Porthos!" Athos scrambled over as the big Musketeer collapsed back onto the ground. "Calm yourself!"

The big man lay panting on the ground, eyes still closed as he tried to ride out a wave of agony. "Sorry. Couldn't help it."

Athos turned to Aramis, who was slowly pushing himself upright. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Aramis blinked a few times, looking groggy. "I should have expected that."

Despite Porthos' violent reaction, the wound still needed to be treated. Aramis bent over Porthos once more, this time with Athos leaning his weight against the prone man's back. It proved to be unnecessary, however, as the big Musketeer promptly passed out as Aramis resumed his grisly duties.

"This is much easier," Aramis acknowledged as he removed the offending ball and bits of cloth with his forceps. He thoroughly cleaned the wound with cooled, boiled water, and sewed it up with shaking fingers.

Athos raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps next time we should ensure that he is unconscious before you begin."

Aramis shook his head, gazing down at his insensate friend with a mix of fondness and guilt. "I'd rather there not be a 'next time'," he said quietly, pulling a blanket up over Porthos' shoulders. "Take Porthos back to Susa tomorrow morning, and care for him there. He is in no condition to be on the trail."

Athos frowned. "And where will you be?"

"I will lead the soldiers way from you. They only want me. There is no need for you or Porthos to suffer from what they perceive to be my crimes. You will be safe."

The swordsman made an ungentlemanly sound, unimpressed with Aramis' plan. "You cannot truly believe that Porthos would be safe while we remain in Savoy. We attacked and killed a convoy of Spanish soldiers. There is a garrison in Susa. I will allow you to draw your own conclusions."

The worn marksman shrugged. "You should not have come here."

Athos tilted his head. "And why not?"

Aramis shuffled back, pulling away from the warm glow of the fire. He leaned against the cold stone of the cavern wall, drawing his knees up and resting his elbows upon them. He dug his fingers into his unkempt hair. "You shouldn't have." Aramis closed his eyes and coughed.

"If Porthos was in your position, would you not do the same as he has done?"

The marksman shrugged, but he did not disagree.

"I know are you many things, but I did not think a hypocrite was one of them."

Aramis' eyes flew open. "I would gladly be called a hypocrite if it meant my brothers were safe," he snapped.

"So you are the only one that is allowed the privilege of ensuring that your friends are alive and well? You would deny Porthos and me the same reassurance?"

The marksman glared at Athos as he cleared his throat. The sound was thick and gritty, and Athos winced to hear it. "I would. I am selfish in that regard." His eyes slipped shut once more, clearly done with the conversation.

Athos poked at the fire with a stick. It felt dry in his hand, and so he added it to the flames. The swordsman gradually felt himself relaxing as his frozen limbs thawed. He thought that perhaps he should not care so much, but the marksman's rejection of their help stung him. Athos felt himself sliding into a dark mood as a long, loaded silence stretched between the two men.

"Porthos said you were a part of the Savoy massacre." Athos was not quite sure what possessed him to bring up the painful topic, but the words involuntarily slipped out of his mouth. Perhaps it was a small, petty bit of retaliation.

Aramis nodded wearily, eyes still closed. "This wretched place has given me nothing grief."

"I see."

"I have already lost twenty-one brothers to this land." Aramis sighed, and when he finally looked at Athos, his gaze held none of the angry fire it had before. It was simply tired, swirling with ghosts that refused to leave him in peace. "My partner as well. I would rather die than lose another. I could not bear it."

 _Brothers._ Athos thought that he understood. Maybe he could not fathom Aramis' specific pain, but loss was loss, and it was something Athos was well-acquainted with. "Sleep, if you can," he said, standing to take care of their horses. "I will take first watch."

 _tbc_

* * *

 _Thank you to everyone that reviewed, and thanks for reading!_


	7. Chapter 7

Porthos woke next to the dull glow of ash-coated embers. Carefully tucked under a thick wool blanket, the cold had yet to touch him. He blinked heavily at the image of Athos, dozing fitfully before the dying fire and it was a moment before panic seized him.

 _Aramis? Where is he?_ His brother was not in his line of sight, and suddenly Porthos feared that the rescue had been nothing but a dream. He tried to roll himself onto his side with the intention of rising to his feet, and was immediately punished for his hasty movement when pain erupted in his shoulder.

"Aramis?" His voice was a weak croak, and it irritated him to hear it. He licked his dry lips and tried again. "'Mis?"

Oddly enough, it was Athos that responded, jerking awake at the sound of the marksman's name. "Pardon?" he said, blue eyes swimming with confusion. Porthos rolled his eyes. Even with his brain cobwebbed with sleep, the new Musketeer was annoyingly refined.

"Where is he?" Porthos asked.

"He is behind you," the swordsman replied, and Porthos realized that the faint whistling sound he heard was Aramis' steady breaths. Athos came over to Porthos' side and lay a gentle hand on his uninjured shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

"Could be better, I suppose," Porthos grunted. In truth, it felt like someone had snapped a bear trap around his shoulder. The pain unrelentingly squeezed at him and radiated down his arm.

"Do you think you could drink something?"

Porthos nodded. Athos helped Porthos to sit and it was a testament to Aramis' poor state that he did not stir while the two Musketeers grunted and struggled their way into an upright position. Supporting Porthos against his own chest, Athos handed him a cup filled with a thin broth made from boiling a piece of dried, salted meat in melted snow. Porthos nodded his thanks once he finished. The big man glanced at the marksman, who was huddled and still under a blanket next to the wall.

"How is Aramis?" Porthos asked quietly.

"He is ill," Athos said flatly, "and stubborn."

"Yeah, that sounds like him," Porthos murmured, a touch of amusement lacing his voice. "How bad?"

The swordsman shrugged. "I am not a physician, but I would wager that both of you are in need of one."

"I see." Porthos grimaced as he shifted, trying to take strain off his shoulder without putting all his weight against Athos. "We need to leave this place. Return to France."

"I agree, unfortunately," Athos said. "It is not safe here, for anyone. But it will be much easier said than done. The mountains block our way, and the main pass will be patrolled. Travel will be challenging."

Porthos' pride bristled at the implication, hearing an accusation in Athos' words. "I won't hold you back," he grumbled. Porthos felt Athos' chest lift and fall as the man heaved a silent sigh. He imagined that Athos might have rolled his eyes, if he was the type of person to do such a thing.

"I did not think you would," Athos simply responded. "We still have a few hours until sunrise. Rest more if you can. We have a difficult journey ahead of us." The swordsman helped to settle Porthos back on the ground. The wounded man watched as Athos tended the fire, adding more fuel and stirring up the embers.

"We will make it," Porthos said suddenly. He did not know why, but it needed to be said. A stony silence greeted his outburst and the other Musketeer refused to meet his eyes. "Athos," he demanded sharply.

"Yes, we will," the other man finally muttered. "All of us. Even if we must drag his unwilling body over the border into France." There was a vindictive determination in his voice that made Porthos bare his teeth in a ferocious, answering grin. He had no doubt as to whom Athos was referring, and Porthos felt an unexpected burst of warm camaraderie for the swordsman.

"I am with you," Porthos agreed, satisfied with Athos' commitment. He reached out with his good hand towards Athos. After a surprised moment, Athos clasped it firmly, locking together two men with a common purpose.

Porthos assumed that he must have dozed off once more, because when he opened his eyes, he found Aramis leaning over him. A pleased smile creased the marksman's tired face as he checked the dressing over Porthos' wound.

"Our sleeping beauty, awake at last," Aramis teased, his voice rough. Porthos did not miss the note of mingled relief and guilt in his tone. "How are you, mon ami?"

"Was fine until I woke up to the sight of your face," Porthos said, shuddering in mock disgust as he attempted to push himself up. "Thought I might still be sleeping and having a nightmare."

Rather than the fake affront he expected, Aramis chuckled ruefully as he ran his hand over his mouth and beard. "It is probably a good thing we have no mirrors," he said, "as I suspect my pride would not survive the encounter." It was as close as Porthos would get to an admission that Aramis was not at his best.

"You mean your vanity," Porthos corrected as the marksman hooked his arms under the big man's shoulders and carefully helped him up.

"I most certainly do not," Aramis shot back. "Jealousy does not suit you, my dear brother." A serious expression wiped away the brief merriment in Aramis' pale face as he crouched before Porthos, eyes dark and concerned and far too big. "How is the pain? Do you feel ill?"

"I should be asking you that," Porthos muttered under his breath. "It is manageable. I'm fine."

The marksman sighed and bit off a cough that threatened to escape. "If only that was the truth," he murmured. "I will get you something to eat."

Aramis stood and wavered on his feet for a moment before procuring a hard heel of bread and more of the salted meat broth that Athos had made the night before. It was a paltry meal, but it was the best that they could do. Their provisions had been low when they had reached Susa, and they had not found the time to fully replenish them. Normally, the pass between Susa and Briançon could be traversed at a brisk pace in less than two days time with fair weather and good horses. Porthos highly doubted that they would be able to travel with such speed.

Despite a lack of appetite, he took the offered items and nibbled away, watching as Aramis slowly sipped the same broth from a battered pewter cup. The marksman looked like he needed far more food, but there was none to spare. _Serge is going to have a fit when we return,_ Porthos guessed. _I don't think Aramis will be escaping the kitchens for at least a month. Maybe two._

Now that Porthos had time to study him, the only conclusion he could come to was that his brother looked terrible. The swelling that had distorted his face the day before had subsided, leaving behind motley splashes of greens, yellows and purples to mar his ashen skin. He also noted the fresh bruise on Aramis' jaw with a flush of guilt. Even with his cloak wrapped tightly around his body, Porthos could easily see that the past couple of months had whittled away Aramis' already lean frame. It was clear that the marksman's time in Savoy had treated him very poorly, and Porthos' rage rose once more. He still had not reconciled with Tréville's decision to allow Aramis to come back to this place, knowing the horrors the marksman had previously witnessed here. _I doubt his memories of Savoy will be any fonder after this visit,_ the big man thought regretfully.

A few minutes later, Athos came back into the cave, his cheeks red with cold. "There are no soldiers in the vicinity," he announced. "We should leave now, before that changes."

Athos and Aramis set to quickly packing up their belongings and saddling up their mounts, while Porthos rolled up his blanket and tucked it under his arm. He watched as Aramis approached Athos and murmured something unintelligible to the swordsman, which led to a quiet argument. Despite the grim set of Athos' mouth, he eventually took Aramis by the shoulders with far more patience and gentleness than Porthos would have expected from the swordsman. While Aramis nodded in response to Athos' words, when he turned away, disappointment was written on his face. Although he could not hear their conversation, Porthos had an idea or two about its topic. The big man clambered to his feet, pulling in harsh, deep breaths as pain flared from the change in position. Being careful not to jar his shoulder, he stamped out the fire and slowly walked over to the horses. He would not allow this wound to be the thing that drove them apart.

They left their refuge and rode out into the frigid morning. The spring air still had a winter bite, and it seemed to Porthos that they wouldn't see fairer weather until they reached Paris. He and Athos rode double once more while Aramis sat astride the other horse. Athos led the way, directing them away from the main trail along the floor of the mountain pass and higher up into the jagged peaks. The obvious marks they left in the untouched snow clearly showed their path, but there was nothing to do about it. Their only option now was to move quickly and quietly as they could and pray that none of the soldiers guarding the pass caught sight of them.

In spite of the cold, the day was bright and clear. The sun glanced blindingly off the icy white blanket that covered the land, and Porthos locked his eyes into a permanent squint in an effort to ward off the glare. Although their pace was almost torturously slow, Porthos still found the gait of the horse jarring and painful. They stopped frequently to rest the horses and switch riders, and Porthos could almost feel the tightly wound impatience rolling off both of his companions as they crawled across the moutains towards safety.

Their luck held out for almost an entire day of hard travel. The sun was slowly descending behind the mountains as Porthos and Aramis rested, waiting restlessly for Athos to return from a short scouting trip. When he appeared, he brought unfortunate news. "There are Spanish soldiers below us," he reported tersely. "I do not think they have spotted our tracks yet, but we should get moving."

The three Musketeers grimly remounted and silently urged their mounts to climb uphill. Aramis rode double with him this time, leaving Athos free to roam and scout as necessary. The marksman sat behind him like a stretched bowstring, so taut with tension that Porthos worried he would snap. He could feel Aramis' chest jerk violently each time he held back a cough, could hear the light wheeze that trailed each inhale and exhale. _That sounds awful,_ Porthos thought anxiously, unhappy with the knowledge that nothing could be done for it. The big Musketeer could only hope that the illness that gripped his brother was not as dire as it seemed.

The snow was different here, frozen into a thick solid crust that would suddenly give way to weightless powder beneath. The unstable surface made the footing uncertain for the horses, and Porthos grunted as each lurching step stirred fresh agony in his shoulder. He clenched his jaw so tightly against it that he could hear his own teeth creak under the stress. Clouds had rapidly coiled around the mountaintops as night had fallen, threatening another wretched round of ice and snow. They kept ascending, fighting against the gusting winds that threatened to topple horse and rider. Porthos eventually descended into a half-daze and aimlessly bobbed in a sea of hurt, unwillingly but instinctively trusting Aramis to keep him upright.

"Athos, we need to stop." The marksman's low murmur cut through his reverie.

Only the howl of the wind and clatter of hooves responded to Aramis' entreaty. Then he heard Athos say, "I know. They would be wise not to follow us in this weather." There was another lengthy pause. "There is shelter up ahead. It looks like an abandoned guard post. We can stop there for the night."

Aramis coughed. "Are you certain? What if the Spaniards decide to roost there as well?"

"I suppose that is a chance we shall have to take," Athos replied. The marksman did not argue.

Porthos slipped back into his fog as they took off again, and roused once more when movement ceased. A light touch on his knee made him look down at Athos, who was standing by his side.

"What is it?" Porthos asked dully.

"Let me help you down," Athos replied. It was then that Porthos realized Aramis was still in the saddle behind him, shivering with cold, waiting for him to dismount first.

The big man swung his leg around with all the grace of a cow and managed not to bruise either his pride or his backside as he slid from the animal's back. The quiet embers in his shoulder roared to life once more, and he could not prevent a gasp from escaping him. He felt Athos' hands on him, guiding him down, and was begrudgingly thankful for the aid. As the swordsman helped Porthos stagger towards the tiny stone hut, he glanced back at Aramis. His brother was nothing more than a dark shadow, his cloak whipping around his legs as white flakes began to fall from the sky. Porthos wanted to stop, to call out to his brother and tell him to come along before the strength of the storm increased, but it was too late. Athos worked open the rusty latch on the door and they were inside, sheltered and safe, while Aramis remained outside in the cold.

* * *

 _Thank you to everyone that left a review, and thanks for reading!_


	8. Chapter 8

Despite the bitter chill numbing his skin, Aramis could not bring himself to move any faster as he led the horses to a crumbling shed that provided no warmth but did manage to block out the wind. With slow, graceless fingers, he unpacked the horses and was slowly gathering up the bags when Athos joined him and took them out of his hands.

"Go inside and help Porthos," the swordsman ordered, handing over a waterskin for Aramis to carry. "I will take care of the animals and bring in the rest."

Aramis wanted to protest, but instead found himself nodding wearily in acquiescence. He trudged towards the outpost, bent nearly in half as he fought against the driving gusts of snow. By the time he made it inside, his legs were trembling as if he'd sprinted the entire day. Whatever thoughts he had of rest, however, were wiped away as soon as he saw Porthos slumped against the rough stony wall, head drooping. A familiar, horrified dread began to creep over him, and Aramis fiercely pushed it back. _No,_ he promised himself. _Not again. Never again._

He could hear his own breaths whistling in the silence as he heavily dropped to his knees next to his friend and grabbed his brother's limp hand. "Porthos?"

To his profound relief, Porthos' dark head lifted and he sleepily stared at Aramis. "Eh?"

"How is your arm doing, brother?"

The big man grimaced as he shrugged. "Fine."

It was an obvious fib, but Aramis let it go. "Let me start a fire and then I will check your wound. Hold this for me?" He handed the waterskin to Porthos, who tucked it under his good arm to thaw the frozen liquid inside.

Drawing up his meager strength, Aramis pushed himself upright and closed his eyes as the room tilted and spun. The physical demands of riding over rough terrain all day had completely wrung him out, and suddenly, the thought of gathering fuel and lighting a fire seemed like overwhelmingly monumental tasks. Fatigue dragged at his limbs, and it took all his willpower to stay on his feet instead of just collapsing to the ground and sleeping wherever he landed. Inhaling deeply and carefully so as not to set off another bone-rattling spasm, Aramis took one step, then another. _You can do this,_ he encouraged himself wearily. _You have to do it._ _Porthos needs your help._

It took far longer than he wanted, but after several misfires with his flint Aramis at last managed to coax a small fire into life. He gently blew on it and was promptly overcome by violent coughs threatened to tear his chest apart. Aramis folded over his knees as he struggled to regain control of his treacherous lungs. When his breathing finally calmed, he held still for a moment or two, dizzily waiting for the pain to fade and for his breathing to calm. As he slowly gathered his wits about himself and pushed back upright on shaking arms, he turned to a dozing Porthos, only to find the big man awake and staring. Aramis noted with a sinking heart that Porthos' normally deep complexion was ashen in the warm light of the flames.

"You sound awful," Porthos remarked, concern plainly stamped all over his face.

"You look awful," Aramis shot back, attempting a small grin.

"Still better than you, I'll bet," Porthos muttered, frowning.

"I did not realize we were having a contest," Aramis replied as he approached his friend. He lightly gripped the other man's good shoulder. "Let me see, Porthos."

Porthos dutifully leaned forward, wincing as the marksman jostled his arm while peeling away his doublet and shirt. "Sorry," Aramis whispered, cursing his own fumbling hands.

"'S'alright," Porthos muttered. He waited patiently as Aramis unwound the bandages and carefully prodded at the stitched hole.

"Well?" Porthos asked, breaking the silence.

"The wound seems clean and the stitches are holding," Aramis informed him, reapplying the dressing. He shook his head and said, "You should be in a bed, warm and rested. Not traipsing about in mountain storms, fleeing from soldiers."

"That could be said of all of us," Porthos pointed out.

"I asked Athos. I asked him to take you to Susa. He refused," Aramis said quietly. He plopped down next to his friend, groaning with relief as he relaxed against the wall.

"'Mis, we couldn't have gone back there. You know that."

" _We_ couldn't," Aramis replied. "You could have." Regret sat heavily in his chest as he closed his eyes. He felt Porthos' phantom weight sagging against his back once more, smelled the copper tang of spilled blood. Porthos' blood, Girard's blood and that of twenty other Musketeers.

"Stop this, Aramis," Porthos said firmly. "Is this what you and Athos were arguing over last night?"

"It was not an argument," Aramis muttered. "It was a discussion in which Athos refused to acknowledge that he was wrong."

Porthos took the warmed waterskin and took a healthy swig from it. "Athos volunteered to come with me so that we could bring you home."

Aramis sighed and then coughed, pressing his lips together against another onslaught. Small spikes of pain were beginning to dig into his chest with each breath. He knew what that meant, but pushed the implications away. "I did not ask you to come."

"No. And yet here we are, same as you would have been," Porthos said, a tinge of anger in his voice. "Don't try to deny it."

"I'm not," Aramis rasped reluctantly.

"Then quit blaming him," Porthos grumbled. "He is not the one that shot me."

Aramis merely shook his head. "I know," he said quietly. The warming air moved heavily in his chest. "But I do not want to see you waste your lives of this fool's errand, Porthos."

He felt the fury and confusion radiating from Porthos as the big man grabbed his arm and forced the weary marksman to look at him. "Why would you say such a thing? What is wrong with you, Aramis?"

The door flew open as Athos swept into the outpost, interrupting Porthos' planned tirade. A blast of icy air followed him in. His sharp gaze took in the scene before him and he frowned, slamming the door shut behind him. Patches of his skin were red and chapped with exposure.

"Did I miss something?" he asked coolly.

"No," Porthos responded. Thankfully, he released Aramis and wrapped an arm around the marksman's shoulders instead. Aramis slumped against his brother and observed through half-lidded eyes as Athos put down the saddlebags and rummaged through them.

"I circled the area and I did not see any signs of the Spanish patrol. The storm should protect us for tonight," Athos reported as he pulled out a couple hard biscuits and a small wedge of cheese wrapped in paper. The swordsman brought his bounty over to the two sitting men and held it out.

"Eat," he said.

The two Musketeers reached up and took his offering. Athos settled himself on the other side of the fire and in studying him, Aramis realized with sudden chagrin that the swordsman looked extremely worn. Although his expression was inscrutable as always, Aramis could see telltale signs in the dark shadows that were smudged under hooded blue eyes and the sagging droop of his shoulders. Athos had likely not gotten any sleep the night before as he had never woken Aramis for the second watch, and he had taken the lion's share of the hard work in breaking trail and advance scouting to ensure their passage was clear. Aramis knew very well that he was being unfair towards the other man, and shame abruptly washed over him.

Not trusting his legs to support his weight, Aramis performed an awkward crawling shuffle that would have thoroughly embarrassed him had he not been so tired. He made his way around the fire and sidled up to Athos, proffering his biscuit and bit of cheese. The other Musketeer had not taken any for himself.

"Take it," Aramis urged quietly. "Please."

Athos raised an eyebrow but made no other movement. "You need to eat, Aramis," was all he said.

"As do you. Besides, I'm not hungry," Aramis claimed. Which was true. After suffering through countless days of wretched hunger pains, now that food was available to him again, his appetite seemed to have entirely vanished.

"I find that hard to believe," Athos said dryly. "You look like a walking skeleton."

Aramis pursed his lips as he split the food in half. He pressed it into Athos' unwilling hands and nibbled on his own share. "Thank you for your honest opinion," he muttered as he chewed. "No need to spare my feelings."

The corner of Athos' mouth quirked in amusement. "You are welcome," he said magnanimously.

The marksman watched with satisfaction as Athos ravenously ate the small meal he'd been given. It disappeared altogether too rapidly, and Aramis wished there was more to share. "I wanted to apologize," Aramis said softly once Athos was finished. "I know I asked a difficult thing of you. I had no cause to be upset with your answer."

Athos stared into the fire, warming his hands and feet. "Perhaps not," he said, "but I understand it nonetheless. No apology is necessary."

"Thank you, brother." Aramis leaned into Athos, and was gratified to feel Athos return the pressure. They both watched in a comfortable silence as Porthos slowly succumbed to sleep. Athos stirred himself to drape a blanket over Porthos' limp figure, and then returned with blankets for himself and Aramis.

"Get some rest," Athos murmured. "I will take first watch."

"Promise to wake me," Aramis insisted as his eyelids slid shut, no longer capable of holding out against the exhaustion that was assaulting him.

"I will," Athos said. Aramis caught his words just as he dropped away into a deep slumber.

* * *

When Aramis woke, weak morning light was streaming in through the cracks between the shutters that blockaded the windows. He blinked up at the rotted wooden beams that traversed the ceiling, confused as to where he was. A shiver raced through him and he inhaled sharply. It was a mistake; his breath caught on something liquid and ignited a firestorm in his chest. Aramis curled up on his side in an effort to contain the pain that was consuming him as the coughing shredded his throat and lungs. When the spasm subsided, Aramis shakily brushed off the hands smoothing down his back and pushed himself up. He spat out the thick liquid that had gathered in his mouth and lay back down. With the phlegm cleared, his breathing eased.

"Aramis? Can you hear me?"

"There is nothing wrong with my ears," he wheezed irritably. The marksman opened eyes he did not remember closing and just caught the worried glances exchanged between Athos and Porthos. "You are a liar," he accused Athos.

"What?" Both men looked confused.

"You promised to wake me for the second watch," Aramis said.

Athos lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed. "I chose to exercise my better judgement," he replied serenely.

"Did you sleep at all?" Aramis asked pointedly, sitting back up. He decided to ignore the fact that he required Athos' help.

The older man merely shrugged. From the redness in Athos' eyes, Aramis guessed that he had not. Self-reproach filled him once more as Athos handed him a cup of water. "Thank you," Aramis said contritely. Athos clapped him gently on the arm and stood to gather their belongings.

"You all right?" Porthos asked. A worried look still painted his face.

"I am fine," Aramis replied.

The big man made a skeptical face. "Right."

For the first time, Aramis looked about the deserted outpost. It was no more than a small stone shed, a single room that contained nothing but a couple of chairs and the frame of a cot. The straw mattress was long gone, as was the stretched cloth that would have supported it. A small hearth that was still littered with ash decorated one wall. Aramis imagined that an assignment here would have been lonely and uncomfortable.

"Do we move?" Aramis asked.

"Not yet," Athos replied. "The fresh snow should have covered some of our tracks. I think we can afford to wait."

Wearily, Aramis nodded. Despite a full night's rest, he wanted nothing more than to drop back to the floor and sleep more. Instead, he forced himself to stay awake and to check Porthos' wound again. It appeared to have begun mending, but the man himself looked drained and wan in a way that concerned Aramis. Up close, he could see the lines of pain that had been etched into Porthos' skin and mourned the fact that he had nothing to give his friend to ease his discomfort.

"Stop looking so worried," Porthos said gruffly once Aramis was done with his inspection. "I'll be fine."

The sun was high in the sky when Athos returned from another short scouting trip and declared they had to leave once more. "The days are still very short," he said. "We will need to move now if we intend on making any progress today."

Porthos came to stand by him. "Can't we stay for one more night?" he asked softly. Aramis suspected that the question was not meant to be overheard.

Athos shook his head regretfully. "Our supplies are too short," he muttered under his breath. "We need to push on." _While we still can,_ Aramis' mind silently added. He knew Athos' concern was not for Porthos alone.

The view outside the tiny base was breathtaking, and unlike anything Aramis had seen before. It sat on one of the lower peaks within the Alps, and yet was still high enough that Aramis felt like he was soaring. Dark storm clouds had lightened into thin white trails that hid the base of the mountains below them, swirling in long strands like an old man's beard. Above, the sky was a deep blue, nearly blinding in its brilliance. The mountains themselves looked like haphazard rows of jagged teeth, as if they had unknowingly stepped into the open maw of a giant, deadly predator. The peaks surrounded Aramis, looming over him in a sharp contrast between dark, exposed rock and gleaming cushions of powdery white. Every time the winds gusted, fine wisps of snow burst from the mountainside. The marksman had never felt so insignificant, or so awed.

Athos came up next to him, leading one of the horses. "It is magnificent, isn't it?" Aramis asked.

"Distractingly so," Athos replied. "We need to go, Aramis."

They began to make their way west, staying as high up as they dared. The new layer of snow laid down by the night's storm made travel more difficult than it had been, and the horses rapidly began to struggle with the burden of breaking trail and carrying riders. The Musketeers decided to take turns walking and riding to ensure that their animals would not be weighed down with two riders unless strictly necessary. Although Athos tried to ensure that both Aramis and Porthos rode as much as possible, after a few hours, Aramis could feel his energy dwindling rapidly. Before long, he found himself struggling to stay upright and keep moving.

The sound of barking dogs was the first thing that alerted them to the soldiers pursuing them. The strident noise rifled through them, echoing and amplifying as it bounced up the rocky walls. Indistinct shouts accompanied them. Aramis' head shot up as adrenaline surged through him.

"Athos!" Aramis called out. But the swordsman was already running back for them, taking the path that he had laboriously cut with his own body in an effort to ease the workload on their horses. His eyes were wide and alarmed.

"Get up! Hurry!" Aramis reached out for his friend and helped to swing him up on the back of his mount. Aramis kicked his heels into the animal's sides, urging the tired horse to move faster. The three Musketeers took off in a wild spray of snow, galloping as fast as they dared to escape the fate that bore down on them.

Aramis bent over his mount's neck, keeping his eyes on Porthos and his horse, both of whom had surged ahead under the lighter weight of one rider. They angled towards the edge of a ridge where much of the snow had been blown away and left a rough, rocky surface behind. Athos' arms were tightly wrapped around his ribs, and oddly, he could hear the swordsman's rough breath in his ear. Aramis could feel his own pulse pounding through his head, beating blood through his veins at a frenzied pace. Despite the relative speed with which they fled, the sound of baying grew louder. Aramis chanced a glance back, and saw a party of six or seven faceless soldiers riding along a parallel trail below them, and more worryingly, a pack of hunting dogs romping through the snow, eager to catch up with their prey.

The unmistakeable crack of musket fire ripped through the air and Aramis' heart leapt with fear. Their horse skittered beneath them in shock and pain. The ball had glanced off her hindquarters, tearing a long, deep graze in her hide. Porthos head turned back towards them, his eyes wide with alarm.

"Athos? Are you hit?" Aramis asked frantically.

"No," Athos replied, sounding remarkably calm despite the situation. "Just the horse. Aramis, we are not going to make it."

Aramis simply nodded. He'd known this to be true almost as soon as the chase had begun, but now with their weary, injured animal slowing beneath them, it seemed inevitable. He pulled up on the reins and grabbed the musket that was holstered off the saddle.

"What do you think you're doing? Aramis!"

"Run," Aramis ordered as he slung his leg around the poor horse's withers, weapon in hand and nervous energy singing in his blood. "Go with Porthos. I will cover you."

He was about to slide out of the saddle when Athos grabbed a hold of his arm and jerked him back angrily, his fingers like a vice. "No," he said harshly. "Do you think that Porthos and I will run like cowards and leave you to stand alone? Do you think so poorly of us?"

"It is not cowardice, it is common sense," Aramis hissed back, eyes flashing. "Now go!" Before he could wrench himself away and slide out of the saddle, however, Athos spurred their mount into motion. The startled animal leapt forward, and Aramis would have fallen had Athos not maintained his strong grip. The swordsman wrapped one arm around Aramis' waist to hold him in place, and the marksman was forced to reorient his seat lest he unbalance their weakened horse. He snarled in frustration at his own failure as they chased after Porthos.

"Do not be so eager to die, Aramis." Athos' low murmur sounded in his ear. "We will find a way to survive this. All of us, together."

Aramis heard it before he felt it. There was a noise that was immeasurably loud and yet soft at the same time, as if someone had dropped a large, heavy book onto a soft, plush rug. The snowy ground beneath them vibrated and dropped while their terrified horse whinnied, wildly prancing and spraying droplets of bright red on the white beneath her hooves. Bewildered, Aramis glanced around and his stomach clenched in near-paralyzing fear when he saw a large, horizontal crack appear in the snowpack just above them. He was not entirely certain what was happening, but his instincts were screaming danger at him. All he knew was that they needed to _run._

A large sheet of snow slowly and inexorably separated itself from the one above, and it began to slide beneath them, slowly at first. Aramis kicked at their mount and she jumped forward even as the the giant slab of snow drew them down. A loud, earthshaking rumble filled the air and rattled Aramis' bones as the slide of snow began to pick up speed, bent on leveling anything that stood in its destructive path. The horse beneath them thrashed her legs wildly, fighting to stay on top of the deadly flow of snow and debris. He desperately searched for an escape from the avalanche's relentless course, and spotted something that he prayed would be their salvation. The flood of snow broke over a rocky ledge that sheltered a shallow cave. If they could reach it, then they stood a chance of surviving.

"Porthos!" Aramis shouted at the big man's back. "Porthos! Make for the overhang!" He did not know if Porthos could hear him over the immense noise, but was grateful to see that his old friend was heading directly for it. Aramis tried to direct their own horse for the same stony outcropping, but he could already tell that it would not be possible. They were too heavy, and their wounded horse too weak.

Aramis saw Porthos' horse set her hooves safely on the ledge before they were swept under by a wave of snow and ice. Aramis kicked free of the stirrups and snatched at Athos, trying to catch a hold of the man before they were separated under the frozen deluge. His numbed fingers grabbed onto a what felt like a leather-clad arm, and he clutched at it with all his strength, but it was no use. The avalanche was infinitely stronger than he was, and it tore Athos away from him. The snow pummeled him from all sides, pounding at him with chunks of ice and rock as he tumbled down, utterly powerless against the relentless forces that shoved him along. He furiously churned his arms and legs, trying to stay near the surface despite the fact that he no longer had any idea where the surface was. A brain-numbing white noise filled his ears and mind and left room for little else but trickles of confusion and terror.

Aramis lost all concept of time as he was swept along. Seconds could have been hours, and hours could have been minutes. A glancing blow from an unyielding boulder knocked the wind out of him and drove a spike of pain into his ribs. Everything was white, noise, cold, pain, suffocation.

And as suddenly as it began, everything stopped.

* * *

 _Thank you to everyone who took the time to review! And as always, thanks for reading and happy holidays!_


	9. Chapter 9

"Aramis! Athos!" Porthos screamed as loudly as he could, not caring that panic was making his voice crack. "Aramis!"

The avalanche lasted only a minute or two, but as he helplessly stood in the shelter of the shallow cave, they were easily the longest minutes of Porthos' life. He thought that the mountain would keep sliding forever, carrying his companions away from him into the valley below. Lost forever to him. He kept his eyes locked into the spot where he saw Athos and Aramis succumb to the avalanche's power, and tried to estimate where they might have landed. It was a hopeless task, but Porthos kept his mind on it. There was nothing else to do.

As soon as the terrible rumbling stopped, Porthos abandoned his frightened horse and ran out onto the wreckage that the slide had left in its wake. He had thought that it would be soft and unstable, but instead found the snow had packed dense and hard. He skirted around the dead trees that had been uprooted and the boulders that had been displaced. Porthos stumbled across the upended snow, his feet tripping in their haste to find his friends.

"Athos! Can you hear me?" Porthos staggered to a stop and whirled in place, searching for any sign that his friends were still alive. "Aramis!"

And then by some miracle, a booted foot kicked its way through the icy crust. With a cry, Porthos lurched his way towards it, his heart pounding with hope. He began to dig at the compressed snow, ineffectually scraping away thin handfuls. With a cry of frustration, Porthos punched down at the snow, feeling an unpleasant tearing sensation in his shoulder as he did so. Ignoring the warmth blooming along his back, he tore frantically at the icy pack and was rewarded with a leg, then a woolen cloak, and finally a head of long, bedraggled hair. "Oh, thank God," Porthos whispered fervently.

With the marksman's help, Porthos cleared a hole that was large enough so that he haul his brother out of it. He pulled Aramis free of the dead avalanche's grip and carefully set him down, curling protectively over the other man as he lay gasping and hacking on the snow. Pure agony contorted Aramis' features as he struggled to breathe.

"Come on now, you can do it. You are safe, Aramis," Porthos murmured soothingly, gratefully running a gentle hand over the marksman's head. "You're safe. Calm down, 'Mis. Breathe. You can do it."

"Alright?" Aramis weakly choked out when he was able to hold onto a lungful of air.

"Fine, Aramis. Just fine." He held Aramis' face in his hands, looking down into his friend's pained eyes. "You?"

"Yes. Ribs," Aramis panted. "Athos?"

"We need to find him, Aramis. He is still missing."

The distress in Porthos' voice made Aramis snap to attention. He pushed Porthos away and forced himself into a sitting position. "Buried?"

"I hope so," Porthos replied. _Better that than the alternative,_ he mused, shuddering at the thought of the sheer cliffs that cut through some of the slopes. He helped to pull Aramis to his feet.

"Athos? Athos!" Aramis shouted. He drew another deep breath and bent over, coughing uncontrollably. The marksman collapsed back to his knees, clutching at his sides.

"Athos! Can you hear us?" Porthos took over the calling duties, while placing a worried hand on the marksman's bent back. "Athos!"

"Go," Aramis wheezed, waving Porthos on. "Find Athos. You must find him."

Porthos stepped away from Aramis, walking in a slow, steady path that slowly spiraled away from where he'd found the marksman. "Athos! Give me a sign if you can hear me!" His heart sank with despair as he surveyed the destroyed landscape. If Athos was unconscious or buried too deeply to hear them, Porthos had no idea how they would find the swordsman. It would be impossible to dig up the entirety of the avalanche's path. Each minute that ticked by was one more Athos had to survive on his own, cold and alone.

"I lost my grip on him," Aramis whispered despondently as he finally rejoined Porthos in his search. "I had him, and then he was gone."

The two men called out for their missing friend, the voices growing more anxious. Tension coiled almost unbearably between the two of them when Aramis suddenly stopped.

"Do you hear that?" The hushed hope in his voice made Porthos freeze.

"What?" he whispered.

"That... Athos! Athos, if that is you, answer us!"

And then Porthos heard it. It was a muffled, indistinct noise, but it was undoubtedly one made by a human throat. He dropped to his knees and placed his ear close to the packed snow.

"Keep talking, Athos, we are going to find you!"

It was incredibly difficult to tell, but Porthos kept crawling until he reached a spot where the faint noise seemed loudest. "Here," he said, fervently praying that he was not wrong. It would mean the swordsman's death if he was. "Athos is here."

The two Musketeers scrabbled at the snow. Porthos tried to punch through it again, but it had settled further and was like trying to break stone. Aramis disappeared and raced back moments later with shards of rock that were thin and flat. He handed one to Porthos.

"Be careful," Aramis warned as he fiercely attacked the frozen ground, using the flat rock as a shovel head. "We do not want to hit Athos by accident." Neither man mentioned that Athos would likely prefer to be mauled by stone than to remain buried alive.

Porthos did not know how long it took to uncover their friend. Too long - his arms trembled with weariness by the time Athos came into view.

"Oh God," Aramis murmured as they lifted the swordsman's limp body from his snowy coffin. They lay him on the snow and Aramis brushed his fingers against the man's throat. A trickle of sticky blood traced the side of his face. "Athos? Please, brother."

"He's freezing," Porthos observed, feeling the tremors that ran through the unconscious man's limbs. "Come on now, Athos. Wake up." Grimacing at the strain it placed on his reopened wound, Porthos grabbed Athos under the shoulders, intending to hold the man against his chest in an effort to warm him up. Athos' eyes snapped open as he came to with a pained gasp. He sucked in deep lungfuls of clean, fresh air as he rolled away from Porthos' grip. Athos knelt on the snow, clasping his left arm close to his chest as he fought to regain his equilibrium.

"Athos? What is it?" Profound relief and concern colored Aramis' voice as he gently wrapped an arm around the trembling man.

It took a moment or two before Athos managed to control his shivering enough to speak. "My shoulder," he whispered.

Aramis delicately ran his hands over the offending joint and winced at the deformity he found. "It is dislocated," he said.

"Oh shit," Porthos said, his face draining of color when he realized he had pulled on it. "Sorry."

Athos waved his apology away. "That I am alive to feel the pain is something I am grateful for," he said quietly. "Thank you."

"It is something we are grateful for as well," Aramis said, shuddering as he pulled the swordsman in close and placed a light, thankful kiss on the side of his head. "Anything else we should know about?"

Athos silently shook his head as Aramis' fingers continued to explore his injured arm. "I'm sorry, Athos, but the joint must be relocated or you will lose use of your arm," the marksman said. He frowned unhappily. "I know how to do such a thing in theory, but have yet to put it into practice."

"No better time than now, I suppose," Athos replied bravely.

The three men made their way back to the protected overhang where Porthos' faithful horse stood waiting. "Porthos, I must ask you to do this," Aramis whispered to his friend. "I...I am afraid I may not have the strength needed for the task." Porthos clasped the back of Aramis' neck and offered a light squeeze in understanding even as his heart sickeningly dropped. He knew from that for Aramis to admit such a thing, his condition must be worse than Porthos suspected.

In the relative safety of the rocky ledge, Aramis instructed Porthos on how to position Athos' arm and how force should be applied to realign the joint. It took three attempts and a strangled scream from Athos before his shoulder was finally shifted back into place. Aramis gave Athos a wan smile and wrapped the swordsman's arm in a makeshift sling as Porthos shuffled away, dizzy and nauseated by the grinding sensation of the relocation and the pain he had caused his friend. "Feel better?" Aramis asked Athos.

"Perhaps I will later," Athos answered through clenched teeth. "I would prefer to never do that again."

Porthos caught Aramis' eyes with a small tremor of disgust as the marksman glanced at him. "I believe Porthos feels the same way," he said.

Athos' drooping head suddenly shot up. "What happened to the Spanish soldiers that were following us?" he asked urgently.

Porthos shrugged. "I do not know. I assumed they were caught by the snow."

Athos hefted himself to his feet, face still pale with echoes of pain. "That is the sort of thing I would like to know for certain," he said. "Wait here. I will check."

"Athos, you should rest," Aramis protested. "I need to see to your head."

"It is fine," Athos assured him. "No more than a mild headache. I hope this will not take long." He trudged away before Aramis could argue further.

"Only a fool would believe he is fine," Aramis muttered as he turned towards Porthos. Porthos raised an eyebrow at the marksman.

"What?" Aramis asked.

Porthos sighed. "Never mind."

Aramis gestured towards him. "Let me see, Porthos. I can tell that it is causing you discomfort, so do not try to pretend that you are fine as well."

Porthos allowed Aramis to check the wound, knowing what the marksman would find. Up close, the big man could clearly hear the unhealthy crackle that accompanied each of Aramis' labored breaths. Purple smudges of exhaustion bruised the skin beneath Aramis' eyes. The dazed glassiness of those dark eyes made worry settle like an anvil in Porthos' chest, and his heart hammered against it with sharp, toxic anxiety. He tried not to think about what would happen to his brother, to all of them, if they did not reach civilization soon.

Aramis' normally clever fingers were slow and clumsy as they untied the bandages around the wound. "The stitches are torn," Aramis murmured concernedly as he examined the injury. "You've bled again, Porthos. Too much."

Porthos had already realized it. He could feel weakness tugging at him once more, and thirst made his throat sticky and dry. He took a handful of snow and stuffed it into his mouth. "Nothing to be done about it," Porthos said.

Silence was the only reply he received as Aramis pressed a folded cloth against the ragged wound. Porthos bit back a groan as it sent shockwaves of agony which undercut the battle rush that had been sustaining him. When the marksman was satisfied, Aramis dressed the wound once more and carefully helped Porthos to shrug on his doublet.

"I am sorry, mon ami. I cannot do anything more for it here." The naked dejection in Aramis' quiet statement tore at Porthos, and he cursed both Savoy and Tréville once more.

Athos returned then. "I did not see any live soldiers, but I did spot a couple of bodies down below," he said. "They did not appear capable of mounting another pursuit." Porthos felt a moment of savage satisfaction at the good news. Athos tossed a couple of saddlebags on the ground. "I also managed to rescue these. Unfortunately, our other horse was beyond rescue."

Porthos frowned. They were now down to one horse to carry three wounded men through dangerous territory. If their journey had been slow before, Porthos could not imagine how long it would take for them to cross the mountains safely into France. It was clear that the same thought had crossed Athos' mind, as he continued, "We need to move down into the valley. The speed with which we will be able to travel will be well worth the risk of meeting another Spanish patrol." His eyes flickered to Aramis and then settled on Porthos.

"I agree," Porthos said, holding Athos' worried gaze. "We need to leave Savoy as quickly as possible."

The three men quickly gathered up their dwindling supplies and added the extra saddle bags to their remaining horse. Predictably, an argument broke out as to who would be riding and who would be walking.

"No," Aramis refused when Porthos tried to insist. "I do not have a bleeding shoulder. Or a dislocated one."

"Formerly dislocated," Athos noted dryly. "I would hate to think I went through that...process for nothing."

"You are ill," Porthos said stubbornly. "And there is nothing wrong with my legs."

"It is a simple cold," Aramis argued, not appearing the least bit ashamed of his blatant lie. "I am not getting on that horse, Porthos. Not while you carry that bleeding wound."

"Porthos, ride for a little while," Athos intervened. "We are rapidly losing daylight."

With a frustrated sigh, Porthos went to the horse and gave the gelding a soothing, grateful pat. "We are working you hard, eh?" he spoke lowly to the horse. Despite his distaste for riding while the others walked, Porthos privately admitted that it was pride more than sense that made him refuse. As the flood of adrenaline had receded, he was left feeling shaky and drained. Closing his eyes against a wave of dizziness, Porthos heaved himself up into the saddle. When he opened his eyes, he found both Athos and Aramis watching him with open concern.

"I'm ready," he said firmly, forcing his spine straight. "Let's go."

* * *

 _I'll admit that the way Aramis and Athos were found is probably not very realistic, but chances of surviving an avalanche plummet after about 15 minutes, so it had to be done. We'll just call it artistic license! Anyway, thank you to everyone that reviewed, thanks for reading, and happy 2019!_


	10. Chapter 10

The cold had settled deep into Athos' bones, turning them into icicles that supported equally frozen muscles. He'd long given up trying to suppress the shivers that shook him as he simply did not have the energy to spare. The avalanche had thoroughly marked him, despite the brief amount of time he'd spent buried beneath it. Athos had found himself suspended in a sea of ice, much like an insect trapped in amber, and just as helpless. The weight of the snow had been enormous, and it seemed incredible that he might end up crushed by something that had always seemed to weightless when falling from the sky. Athos' mentally shied away from the memory of his glassy white tomb. He was alive. That was enough for now.

His injured shoulder throbbed with each staggering step despite being immobilized in a sling. They had finally completed the arduous journey down into the heart of the mountain pass, and the flatter terrain in the valley made travel infinitely easier. However, it was still covered a deep layer of untouched white, and Athos took it upon himself to try and break a trail for their remaining horse to follow. The poor beast had already been worked very hard, and it did not bear to think of what might happen if they lost it to exhaustion. Pushing through undisturbed snow was grueling work, so Athos put his head down, allowed his thoughts to empty and trusted his body to move by rote.

The sound of his name cut through the blankness of his mind, rousing him from his trance-like state. "Athos! Athos, stop, damn you!" It was Porthos' voice that was shouting at him, and the desperation in it made him halt and turn.

His tired brain did not immediately process what it was seeing. Aramis and Porthos had been following behind him, with the big man in the saddle and the other Musketeer walking by his side. The horse had come to a standstill, and a dark puddle lay by its hooves. It took too long to recognize that the puddle was Aramis, and the realization made his heart leap painfully in his chest.

"No," Athos breathed. He somehow dredged up the energy to break into a run, his legs churning clumsily as he raced for the downed marksman, fearful of what he might find. Porthos was already sliding awkwardly from the saddle and landed gracelessly next to his friend. Athos slid to his knees next to him as they both bent over Aramis' still form.

The marksman had landed face down in the snow and they carefully turned him over. Athos could not tell whether Aramis was still breathing. The marksman's hollow face was nearly as white as the landscape around them, and his lips were tinged with a frightening blue, but whether from cold or lack of air, Athos did not know. He sucked in a deep breath and firmly stomped down on his rising panic. "What is it? What happened?" Athos demanded.

"I don't know," Porthos yelled, loud and abrasive with panic. "He was walking one minute and on the ground the next. He just collapsed."

Athos yanked off his gloves as Porthos pulled Aramis' lifeless body up against his chest. Leaning in towards the marksman, Athos could see light puffs of mist that accompanied each of Aramis' short, shallow breaths. "He still breathes," Athos murmured. Despite evidence that his friend his was alive, he pressed his fingers lightly against Aramis' throat. He needed the reassurance. The slow, steady thump he felt was a relief, but the intense heat radiating from Aramis' skin was not. "He is feverish," Athos remarked, looking up at Porthos.

Porthos shook his head sorrowfully, tenderly brushing away the melting snow clinging to his brother's face and hair. "I should have forced him on that damn horse, even if I had to tie him into the saddle. I never should have let him walk."

Athos clasped Porthos' shoulder, forcing the other man to meet his eyes. "I do not think it would have mattered," the swordsman said quietly. "Aramis was already in poor condition when we found him. Perhaps this was inevitable."

The big man looked away, his brow creasing with regret. "Or perhaps we made the wrong decisions and made things worse."

Athos' mouth tightened. "Regardless, we must find shelter. We cannot continue on like this."

Both men lifted Aramis and somehow managed to situate him in the saddle in front of Porthos. The big man clasped his unconscious friend firmly, as if his tight grip could prevent Aramis from drifting away to where he could not follow. Athos silently trudged by them, occasionally peeling away to explore areas that he thought might provide decent refuge. He could tell from the strain on Porthos' face that holding up Aramis' slumping figure was causing pain to his wounded shoulder, but the big Musketeer unsurprisingly bore it without complaint.

Another hour passed before Athos was able to find a cave that was suitable for their needs. After ensuring that it was not occupied by any wild animals, he led Porthos and Aramis inside. Athos' own legs were shaking from the effort of walking all day on little food, even less sleep and the bewildering trauma of tumbling with an avalanche, but he forced them steady and focused on the tasks at hand. There was too much to be done, and no one else to do it.

They did their best to provide their ailing friend with some comfort, but what they could offer was meager at best. As Athos was settling a blanket over Aramis, the marksman noisily sucked in a lungful of air and came to life as he launched into a deep, endless coughing fit that Athos feared would push the fragile man over the edge. By the time it finally subsided, tears were streaming from Aramis' eyes and he sounded as if he was gasping for air from under the ocean. Crawling away from Athos and Porthos on trembling arms, he spat and collapsed to the ground, panting in pain.

"That can't be good, can it?" Porthos whispered, sharing a worried glance with Athos. The big man lay a soothing hand on the marksman's heaving back, trying to ensure that Aramis knew he was not alone.

Athos glanced at the blood-streaked glob that Aramis had expelled, trying not to let the sight of it rattle his nerves. "No, I would think not."

Despite the terrifying reminder of how ill their friend was, he seemed to rest more easily. Athos and Porthos propped Aramis up on a pile of saddlebags against the cave wall to help ease his breathing. As Athos was preparing to light another fire, the marksman opened his eyes and studied his surroundings with surprisingly lucid eyes.

"Where are we?" he croaked.

"In the shelter of a cave," Athos informed him, his hands busy even as he gave Aramis what he hoped was a warm smile. "We are still in Savoy." He did not bother to ask how Aramis was.

"Another one," Aramis rasped. He cleared his throat and winced. "I must admit that I like Savoy's caves. They have been quite accommodating." Aramis coughed again and let out a low moan of pain.

"It would be even more accommodating if they were on French soil. Or better yet, in Paris," Porthos rumbled as he made his way over to the marksman. He sat down next to the reclining Musketeer and lay the back of his hand on Aramis' forehead. "Too hot," he said with a frown.

"Strange, because I feel very cold," Aramis replied, his voice beginning to fade. A visible shudder ran through him as if to prove his point. "And very tired." The short conversation had clearly drained him, and he slipped away once more.

Athos anxiously studied his companions by the flickering light of the fire that he had coaxed to life. Porthos was dozing next to Aramis, his face ashen and lined with pain even as he relaxed towards sleep. And Aramis…he looked like a man clinging to the very end of his rope.

 _We are not going to make it._ The thought struck him hard and clear. _They are going to die here, surrounded by ice and far from home._ Athos would have fallen to his knees had he not already been sitting. The former comte had never been one to dodge the truth, no matter how difficult, but he wished that this particular revelation had never found him, as it was now impossible to ignore.

Athos was aware that the life of a soldier demanded sacrifice. It was one of the reasons that he had joined the Musketeer regiment during his darkest days. If nothing else, Athos excelled at sacrificing, especially for the sake of duty. A Musketeer's life was not his own; it belonged to his King to be used however His Majesty saw fit. Should the King decide to use the life of his Musketeers for a particular cause, then it was a Musketeer's privilege to do as his King demanded. Athos knew this, and he took some measure of comfort in it, as did Aramis and Porthos. Should Aramis and Porthos die in the line of duty, he knew that both men would consider their lives well spent.

This, however, did not seem like a clean, meaningful death to Athos. Aramis and Porthos were fine Musketeers – fine men – and Athos found that he could not bear to watch their lives be wasted in a treacherous land for a mission that never existed. _They are your responsibility,_ his mind firmly supplied. _Should they die on your watch, their blood is on your hands._ A Musketeer belonged to his King, but Athos was coming to learn that he also belonged to the men that fought by his side.

His mind made up, he went to Porthos and gently shook the big man's arm. "Porthos?"

One eye opened reluctantly and gave Athos a wary glare that turned into panic as he bolted upright. "What? Aramis?"

"No. He is resting."

"Oh." Porthos sagged back against the cave wall. "What is it, then?"

"I am going to go for help. We are not going to make it if we continue to travel together."

"What do you mean?" Confusion crossed Porthos' face. "You are going to go out there by yourself?"

"Yes. I believe we are close to the border. The French garrison that we stopped at before passing into Savoy should be nearby. I will be able to travel faster alone."

The big Musketeer's expression darkened. "No. Athos, that is a terrible idea."

"Perhaps, but it is the best option available to us." Athos glanced at Aramis and lowered his voice, despite the fact that the marksman was clearly oblivious. "Aramis cannot travel any farther, and he needs someone to care for him. We are also nearly out of food, Porthos."

Porthos stubbornly shook his head. "This territory is unfamiliar. What if you get lost? Or get caught in a storm? I can't let you do this. Aramis would not agree to it, either, and you know it."

They were excellent points. Unfortunately, none of them mattered to Athos. "Those are risks I am willing to take. If I go, we have a chance of surviving, no matter how small. If I do not, we have no chance at all."

"You can't," Porthos argued weakly, but Athos sensed that the other man was on the verge of capitulation.

"I can, and I will," Athos insisted quietly. "If you were in my place, you would do the same." He gave Porthos' arm a squeeze of commiseration. "Aramis will die if he does not receive help soon, Porthos. Let me get it for him."

Porthos closed his eyes and eventually gave a short nod. When he looked at Athos, the swordsman could see the dark eyes swimming with fear and helpless frustration. "At least wait until tomorrow morning," Porthos said.

"It would best to leave as soon as possible. Every hour counts."

"It will do no good if you break your neck wandering in the dark," Porthos countered. "Give me this, Athos. Please. Wait until daylight."

With another glance at Aramis' still form, Athos finally acquiesed. "I leave at first light." Or before, if he could. Athos turned away from the big man, intent on preparing for his journey and doing whatever he could to ease Porthos' workload in his absence. He was surprised when a firm hand gripped his wrist.

"Athos." Porthos heaved himself to his feet and stood unsteadily before the swordsman. He reached out and pulled Athos to his chest, swallowing the other man in a rough, tight embrace. "Thank you," Porthos murmured softly in his ear. "No matter what happens. Thank you, brother."

Athos tentatively wrapped his arms around Porthos and gave him a pat on the back. "You are welcome," Athos replied. _Brother._ "Although I ask that you to save your thanks for when I return."

He heard Porthos' low chuckle. It was a strange mix of amusement and sorrow. "I can do that," Porthos said. "I know Aramis will do the same. Right before he berates you for risking yourself on a reckless journey."

"We will appreciate the irony even if he does not," Athos replied. With a smirk, Porthos released him and sank back down to the ground. Athos felt oddly bereft when Porthos' arms fell away. Even wounded and hurting, Porthos exuded a warm strength that went beyond the physical. Athos understood why Aramis chose to lean on the man when he needed support.

After sharing a paltry meal with Porthos and persuading a half-conscious Aramis to drink, Athos settled next to the fire. As they no longer had to worry about the threat of pursuit, the swordsman allowed himself to relax and eventually fell into a restless sleep.

* * *

 _And things continue to roll downhill... Sorry it took me so long to upload a new chapter, meant to do so before leaving for a conference and ran out of time. I'll try to post the next chapter soon! Thank you to everyone that reviewed, and thanks for reading!_


	11. Chapter 11

Athos jerked awake, gasping for air and shivering with cold. He could not remember what he had dreamed of, but the grief that lingered heavily in his chest made him uneasy. The fire had burned down, and he could see his breath misting in the frosty predawn air. Forcing his stiff, aching body into motion, he staggered to his feet and silently threw more fuel onto the dying fire. Once the flames were crackling, he thawed his frozen hands and feet and watched his slumbering friends. At some point, Porthos had repositioned Aramis so that the marksman lay against his chest. The big man's arms were wrapped around Aramis under the blanket, supporting him and providing warmth. They appeared at peace. Athos burned the image into his mind.

Gathering up his bags, Athos again examined the provisions and firewood he had collected for Porthos and Aramis. As much as he wanted to check the health of the two sleeping men one final time, he instead led the horse out of the cave, feeling like a slinking thief in the night. He had already resolved to accomplish this task, and he did not want to cause his brothers any further consternation.

Swinging himself onto his tired horse's back with a bound shoulder was difficult, and in the end Athos discarded the sling that held his arm. The joint was still sore, but he thought it would be manageable. The fatigue that weighed him down was another matter; a full night's rest had barely made a dent in the damage wrought from consecutive days and nights of too much draining work and too little sleep. Athos blinked, trying to remove the grit from underneath his eyelids and inhaled deeply, hoping that the dry, frigid air would revive him. With a small nudge, he urged his reluctant horse away from the relative warmth of the cave and into the cold, dark morning.

As he had expected, Athos found that he was able to travel much faster when he did not have to accommodate the needs of his ailing companions. His pace was still not as fast enough to suit the urgency of his mission, but he could not risk moving faster without endangering his mount. The poor animal had suffered nearly as much as the Musketeers had, and Athos was unwilling to lose his best and fastest mode of transportation to hazardous footing on a difficult trail.

Dawn soon chased away the darkness with a flood of dazzling sunshine. The sky was a pure, clear blue and it contrasted beautifully with the unforgiving white peaks that surrounded him. Although the day was blindingly bright, there was little heat to be had from the remote sun. Athos huddled down into his cloak, his face wrapped in a scarf and his hood pulled up to protect his head. The wintry chill sapped his remaining strength, and his muscles were tense and sore from the perpetual shivering. His burial in the snow had leached whatever remaining heat had been left inside of him. Athos had nearly forgotten what it was like to be warm; the tavern he and Porthos had visited in Susa seemed like a distant dream.

Worse than the cold, however, was the hunger that cramped his stomach. It had settled as a painful, empty ache at his very center, and the tiny bites of travel provisions and large quantities of water that he had consumed did little to fill it. Athos had very rarely ever suffered from a lack of food, at least not by anything but choice. In the aftermath of _her_ betrayal, when Athos had preferred to fill his belly with wine at the expense of other sustenance, a meal had always been close at hand. As hungry as he was, however, Porthos and Aramis were in far worse straits and so Athos had tried his best to ensure that their precious rations were distributed according to need.

As the sun rose higher into the sky, he tried to push away thoughts of what he was leaving behind, but was beginning to discover that the increasing distance between himself and his companions only made his worry worse. It had been a long time since Athos had to concern himself with the well-being of others. He was finding the sensation unpleasant, as it gnawed at him like a starving dog with a meatless bone. Athos wondered how Porthos' wound was holding, and whether Aramis' illness was growing worse. The previous evening, his decision to leave had seemed so clear, so right. But now he agonized over it. If he had been with them, he could have helped to care for friends. Out here in the frozen wilderness, all he could do was ride hard and hope that he was not making a terrible mistake. He tried to beat back his doubts that perhaps this was a foolish endeavor, one borne more out of desperation than good sense.

Despite his best efforts to stay alert and focused, deep weariness tugged at him and he slipped into a vacant numbness as the sun climbed high into the sky. He became used to the deep silence that wrapped around him, and so the sudden noise that penetrated his foggy brain made him jump in the saddle, forcing the world to snap back into place with sharp clarity. There were indistinct shouts that were echoing from the north side of valley, and Athos' empty stomach clenched as sudden fear surged through him. _No, please no. Not now! Not when I am so close!_

Athos kicked his heels into the mount, forcing the worn animal into a reckless gallop through the trampled snow. He simply could not afford to be caught here. Horse and rider flew along the trail, but it was not enough. There were shouts behind him now, and they grew louder. Icy wind whistled past his face and made his eyes water, but Athos simply grit his teeth, clinging to his horse's neck and spurring it on as a flood of adrenaline gave him new life.

The explosive bark of a shot fired echoed startlingly through the valley. Athos flinched with the expectation of pain, but thankfully, none came. The ball had flown harmlessly by. The next shot, however landed under his horse's hooves. The projectile hit the ground and in a white explosion and the shock of it caused Athos' mount to stumble. With a frightened whinny, the horse went down heavily, unable to find its footing in the slippery snow. Athos tried to leap free of his stirrups but one boot became tangled and he was unable to kick free. Athos landed badly and an anguished cry was torn from his throat as his loose shoulder popped free of its joint once more and his leg cracked loudly under his fallen horse. His head bounced hard off the icy surface and Athos lay panting on the snow, his vision darkening around the edges as shock numbed his senses. Floating voices came ever closer and Athos clawed at the ground, desperate to pull himself away before he could be captured. It was not to be, however. The weight on his leg was too heavy, and he simply did not have the strength. And so he lay helpless, staring up into the piercingly bright sky and at the menacing figures that loomed over him.

"Careful, he is still alive," one of the voices said. It was deep and rumbling. It reminded him of Porthos.

"Please, no," he groaned. "No."

"Who are you?" One figure crouched down over him and Athos stared blearily into dark, wary eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"You can't," Athos whispered. "They need help."

"Who needs help? Who are you?"

He couldn't tell them. They would find Aramis and Porthos and they would kill his friends. Assuming they were not dead already. "I am sorry," Athos sighed. He fought against the undertow of pain and exhaustion that threatened to pull him under, but he was rapidly losing the battle.

"Sorry for what?"

 _It wasn't enough. Forgive me._

* * *

Aramis thought he might have been having a pleasant dream before waking to harsh reality. Or perhaps he was dreaming now. Aramis strongly preferred the latter scenario. It would mean that he was not trapped in a dreary cave, and that the breathtaking ache in his chest was a nightmare that could be easily banished with the blink of an eye.

He shifted his weight and found that he was leaning against something soft and warm. It moved up and down gently in a rhythm that nearly lulled him back to sleep. It felt like...Porthos?

"Porthos." His voice was nothing more than a raspy whisper. Aramis cleared his throat and grimaced at the grating pain. He swallowed back something that was slick and metallic. Aramis tried again, louder this time. "Porthos."

Still no answer. Something was wrong, but his sluggish mind could not seem to string together a coherent set of thoughts. Aramis struggled to push himself up and was gasping by the time he accomplished his small task. He could feel irritation burbling in his lungs, and he tried to suppress the coughs he knew were coming, but it was useless. The fit overtook him and Aramis collapsed onto his side as unbearable pain exploded through his ribs. He already knew there was nothing he could do to stop it once it started, so he simply let himself go and drifted until it ended. Once over, Aramis curled up in agony. Something was wrapped tightly around his ribcage and was preventing him from getting enough air. Panic began to build as he black dots started to crowd his vision.

"Breathe, Aramis. Slowly now, in and out."

Aramis gradually became aware of Porthos' low rumble as it softly repeated the same words, over and over. He felt something lightly tapping his arm in the same cadence and forced himself to match it. _In. Out. In. Out._

"My ribs," he croaked. "What happened?"

"You said you cracked them in the avalanche."

"Oh."

Once he no longer felt like he was in danger of passing out, Aramis rolled onto his back with a groan. "I called your name. You didn't answer me," he said weakly.

"Sorry about that," Porthos said. "How about we get you off the cold ground, yeah?" Aramis did not have much of a choice as Porthos gently lifted him without waiting for an answer. Porthos was careful not to put pressure on his ribcage as he helped Aramis lean up against a pile of saddlebags. The marksman tried to help, but found he had no strength to do anything other to wheeze painfully and bite back the coughing that threatened to erupt once more. The change in position exhausted him.

"Do you think you can eat something?" Aramis wanted to refuse, but the hope in Porthos' voice made him reconsider.

"Perhaps I can try," he hedged. Aramis watched through heavily lidded eyes as Porthos crawled over to the fire and poured something into a small tin cup. Sleep was a siren and it called seductively called to him, but he held it off. Something in Aramis urged him to spend as much time as he could in the company of his brother. The big man offered the cup to Aramis, who clutched at it with trembling fingers. The taste of the broth made Aramis nauseous, but the steam rising from the cup seemed to soothe his tortured lungs.

"You need to drink for it to help, Aramis," Porthos insisted. "Inhaling it won't do anything."

Aramis shrugged. The heat emanating from the liquid felt wonderful against his hands. "Are you alright? Why didn't you answer me?"

"Just sleeping, 'Mis. Nothing to worry about." Except that Aramis was worried. Even through the haze of his fever-addled mind, he could plainly see that Porthos was struggling. His creased brow and bent posture suggested as much.

"Shoulder?" Aramis inquired.

"It is fine, Aramis. Save your strength. And finish that cup."

"You are a poor liar, Porthos." One would have thought that his education in the Court would have made Porthos better at deception, but Aramis had always found him to be an open book. "Where is Athos?"

Porthos gave him a strange, concerned look. "Athos left, Aramis. Remember?"

No, he did not remember. "He left? By himself?" A strong surge of anxiety lent Aramis the strength to sit up straight. Hot broth sloshed over the edge of the cup. "Why?"

"To get help. We discussed this a few hours ago. When you last woke." A deep furrow creased Porthos' brow.

"And you let him go? By himself?" Aramis sagged back against the saddle bags as the rush of energy quickly abandoned him.

"I had to, 'Mis. We had no choice." Porthos pressed his fingers against his temples, as if warding off a headache.

"But why?" Aramis felt so frustratingly slow, as if his thoughts were wading through hot tar. He did not have much time, but he needed to know. What had begun as an annoyance, snapping feebly at his heels, had rapidly and uncontrollably grown into a tireless monster that threatened to consume him. Aramis could feel the sickness clawing at him, trying to push him back under. He vaguely realized that at some point very soon, it would drag him down so deep that he would not be able to surface again. "It is dangerous. You should have gone with him."

Porthos shook his head. "I needed to stay here with you."

The light finally reached him, and Aramis let his head drop back with regret. "You should have left me here," he murmured. "I would have expected Athos to know better."

"Athos does, and that is why he went," Porthos said adamantly. "All for one, brother. That applies to you, same as any Musketeer."

Aramis shut his eyes against the odds they were facing. "And one for all," he whispered regretfully. Savoy would claim him after all, and he was loathe to see his brothers go down with him. "I would have gladly been that one."

A large, calloused palm pressed carefully against his forehead. Aramis marveled at how someone with such strength could be so gentle when necessary. He had heavily relied on both qualities in the past year. "That is the fever talking," Porthos said. "Rest now."

There were so many things Aramis thought that he should do. He should have checked on Porthos' wound, should have made his friend understand that he was waiting around to carry a dead man back to France. He should have convinced Porthos to leave while he still had a chance. Instead, Aramis did none of these things. Overwhelming lethargy pressed down on the marksman. He felt like he was suffocating under the weight of it. "Sorry," he apologized.

"Don't be. I trust Athos. He will be back for us, Aramis." The fierce faith in Porthos' words elicited a faint note of surprise in Aramis.

"I hope so," Aramis sighed. His tentative grip on consciousness was rapidly loosening. "I hope he comes back for you."

"He will come back for us," Porthos corrected. But Aramis did not hear. He was already gone.

* * *

 _Well, it doesn't seem anyone is doing well at all, but the end may finally be in sight. Whether that end is good or bad, I guess we'll have to see. :D Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and thank you for reading!_


	12. Chapter 12

_"What happened, then? Did you force a bastard on some poor whore?"_

 _Athos tried to ignore the viciously friendly voice. It grated even on his wine-deadened nerves. He considered the childish urge to cover his ears, but doubted that he would have been able to position his hands correctly. No matter. The intruder would lose interest. They always did._

 _"Is that why you are here? Come on now, you can tell me."_

 _Damn it all. Athos raised his head off the table and looked up at the man that stood over him. Finding nothing worth studying, he lowered his gaze. An empty glass lay tipped on the wooden surface of the table top and Athos inched his fingers towards it. Perhaps the next glass would be the one to finally darken his senses. He reached for the wine bottle when it suddenly moved out of his range._

 _"I asked you a question, didn't I? Thought you nobles were supposed to be full of manners." A chair scraped unpleasantly against the floor as the Red Guard pulled it out and dropped into it. He was a tall, thin man with a perpetually pinched expression on his face. Athos struggled to remember his name but quickly decided he did not care. The Guard grabbed the glass from Athos' lax fingers and poured himself the last of the wine. Athos glared at him as he drained it and slammed the goblet back on the table. "Excellent taste in wine, good sir," the Guard said mockingly._

 _Without bothering to answer, Athos pushed his own chair back and made to stand when the Guard grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him back down into his seat. Athos clumsily wrenched his arm away and dropped his head back onto the table. Why wouldn't this cretin go away?_

 _"Why are you here? I didn't think that someone like you would lower yourself to associate with the likes of us."_

 _"He wouldn't. Honestly, no Musketeer could ever drop that low." A cheerful new voice joined the conversation, and Athos silently groaned. All he had wanted was to to be left in peace so he could drink himself into oblivion. He cursed himself for not having gotten started earlier._

 _"This is none of your business, Aramis," came the sullen reply. "Run along."_

 _"I think not. I rather like it here." Another body plopped down into a chair and Athos felt the table vibrate under his head as it was hit by a pair of boots. "Since you drank the wine Athos was saving for me, I suggest that you retrieve another bottle for us."_

 _"Get it yourself," the Red Guard sneered._

 _"But I'm already comfortable," Aramis said reasonably. "And frankly, we're not enjoying your company so you might as well make yourself useful."_

 _There a silence that stretched on, and Athos prayed that it would last. He heard a low mutter as the Red Guard finally pushed back and left their company. "The wine, Anne. You are going in the wrong direction. The bar keep is the other way," Aramis called out. The marksman sighed, and then remarked brightly, "No wonder the Red Guard are so helpless. They cannot follow the simplest of orders."_

 _Athos lifted his head and stared blearily at the other man that had sat uninvited at his little corner table. Aramis casually leaned back in his chair, his feet up and his posture relaxed. Even in the dim lighting of the smoky tavern, Athos could see that the young marksman was not wearing his usual leathers. Oddly, he was wearing clothes that did not belong to him. They belonged to Thomas. They were the same items his brother had been wearing when he..._

 _"What do you want?" Athos asked flatly._

 _"Just the pleasure of your scintillating company," Aramis said with a grin._

 _Athos placed his head back down. It was beginning to ache terribly and he wished for more drink to numb it. The pain squeezed his temples, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. It traveled down his spine and radiated through his body. Agony pooled in his shoulder and leg where it throbbed with a grinding relentlessness. He groaned through a clenched jaw._

 _He felt a hand land on his shoulder and he listlessly swatted at it. "Go away," Athos mumbled. He was too miserable to deal with Aramis' antics. "Don't need your help."_

 _Aramis huffed out an amused chuckle. "Perhaps you do not. But I need yours, Athos."_

 _Something in Aramis' voice made Athos tilt up his gaze. The marksman was still lounging easily in his chair, but now there was a dark stain that was spreading on his - Thomas' - once pristine clothes. Blood saturated the cloth and Aramis touched curious fingers to his own chest. They came away smeared in red._

 _Athos' eyes widened in alarm. "Aramis? What is happening?"_

 _"It seems as though I am dying," Aramis replied. He coughed lightly and blood sprayed from his lips. "But you knew that already, didn't you? That is why you left us."_

 _Pain forgotten, Athos scrambled up and frantically searched Aramis for a wound, but could find none. Despite that, the blood kept flowing. It pooled at their feet and Aramis' skin slowly bleached white. "No, Aramis, stay with me. Thomas, please."_

 _Aramis coughed again, and Athos felt warm droplets hit his cheek. "I need your help, Athos. You need to come back."_

 _"I will, Aramis. I promise. You need to hold on."_

 _The marksman nodded weakly. "Wake up, monsieur. Wake up."_

"Open your eyes, please."

Athos came to with a gasp and swung wildly at the unknown face that hovered above his own. He paid for the sudden motion with a shocking wave of pain that stole his breath. Athos squeezed his eyes shut and tried to roll onto his side but found himself held back by a pair of strong hands.

"Careful," a male voice said soothingly. "Try not to move too much. You will undo my excellent splint work." When Athos stilled, the hands pat him on the shoulder and the same voice bellowed, "Descartes! Let the Captain know our guest has awoken."

A door slammed loudly and Athos flinched. "Where am I?" he rasped.

"At our garrison, outside of Briançon. You are lucky the Captain recognized you, my friend, otherwise you would be resting in a prison cell rather than this nice, warm bed."

 _I made it. I made it back to France._ The elation was short-lived when he remembered why he was alone. The swordsman cracked his eyes open and found a lean, young face with creased with laugh lines staring down at him _._ The kindness in the stranger's dark gaze reminded him too much of Aramis. Athos began to push himself up and found that only one of his arms was free. The left one was bound tightly against his body. "How long have I been here?"

"Perhaps twelve hours. You were clearly exhausted and badly injured."

 _Twelve hours?_ A surge of panic flooded through the swordsman. It had been far too long. "I need to go," Athos muttered.

The other man nodded in understanding, carefully helping Athos to sit. "There is a chamber pot if you need it. I would not recommend wandering outside to the privy in your condition."

"No, I mean I need to leave," Athos growled, frustrated. "My friends need help."

"Ah. Then I would suggest you speak with the Captain. He should be in shortly."

As if hearing the summons, the door opened to admit a tall, broad-shouldered man. Despite the abundant grey in his hair, it was clear that he still had a soldier's strength and discipline. A recollection of the man sluggishly floated up in Athos' brain. They had briefly met when he and Porthos had stopped to rest and replenish some of their supplies.

"Captain Meunier," Athos greeted shortly. He was not in the mood for long conversation.

"Musketeer Athos. Simon tells me that you were quite a mess." The captain nodded at the young man perched on the edge of Athos' bed. "I did not expect for you to return to our garrison in such a manner."

"And I had not expected to be attacked by my fellow Frenchmen," Athos replied stiffly.

The captain's face remained impassive. "My apologies. The men on patrol did not know who you were, and they were suspicious when you ran. I hope you will allow us to provide care for your recovery."

Athos shook his head. "I cannot wait here any longer. My friends are ill and injured. I left them to find aid." He swallowed hard. "I fear they will perish if they do not receive help as soon as possible."

"I see." The Captain considered Athos with a sharp gaze. "You realize you are in no condition to travel."

Athos' expression hardened. "I realize no such thing. I promised I would return to them, and I intend to do so."

Silent tension stretched between the two men. "I remember you had a partner with you," Meunier finally said. "Big, dark man. Also a Musketeer."

"Yes. That was Porthos. He was shot by Spaniards in our escape from Savoy."

"And remind me as to why were you in Savoy?"

Athos stifled a frustrated sigh. "Another Musketeer was trapped after a mission ended badly. We had planned to extract him. He was...he is very ill." Athos resolutely met the other man's calculating eyes. He did not make a habit of asking for assistance from anyone, and certainly not from strangers, but Athos was discovering that he was willing to do almost anything if it meant his brothers would survive. "Please. Help us."

The captain sighed. "Where are they?"

"They are hidden in a cave nearby. It should be less than a day's ride from here, northeast towards the border."

"Hmm." Athos fought the urge to hold his breath as the captain studied him carefully. "Could I convince you to wait and rest for at least another day?"

Athos stared back steadily. "No. Even now, it has been too long." If the captain disagreed, then he would steal a horse and go back to his brothers. He would not abandon them for longer than he already had.

Meunier continued to silently scrutinize him. Athos did not know what the other man saw, but the captain slowly nodded. "Simon, tell Bélanger to prepare the horses and three sleds. And you should gather up whatever supplies you may need. We will be leaving when everything is ready."

The intensity of the relief Athos felt nearly made him collapse. "Thank you. I will not forget this."

The small party came together quickly and was ready to go within an hour. Simon had pressed a cup of steaming, bitter tea into Athos' hands before they left. "Drink up," the young man insisted. "It will help with the pain. Trust me, you are going to need every drop to get through this."

Simon had not been lying. The deep, jarring ache of a broken leg and twisted knee joined the throb from his recently re-dislocated shoulder and heavily bruised ribs. The vice clamped tightly around his head completed the chorus of agony that sang through Athos with every step. Even with Simon supporting his battered side, walking the short distance between the infirmary and stables nearly drained Athos of what little energy reserves he had left.

"Are you certain you can do this?" Simon worriedly whispered in his ear. Athos did not respond. He feared that if he unclenched his jaw, nothing but screams would come out.

The Musketeer had despaired at the idea of mounting a horse, but found that he would not have to. Three large travoises had been prepared and hitched to sturdy-looking animals. As much as it galled his pride to be carted like a helpless invalid, he tamped down on the embarrassment and wordlessly allowed himself to be strapped in. By the time he was situated, Athos could feel cold sweat dampening his skin. Even with the draught Simon had forced upon him, the pain was nearly overwhelming.

"I believe we may be able to follow your trail if the wind has not blown snow over your tracks," Meunier informed him before they set off. "We may need your directions, however, so stay awake if you can."

With the captain's request in mind, Athos did his best to remain conscious as they traveled back towards the cave where Aramis and Porthos waited. Thankfully, traveling by sled was remarkably easy as they glided over the snow smoothly and efficiently, although it was too slow for Athos' tastes. To be fair, even had they flown like hawks, he would have found their pace too slow. They were further delayed by multiple stops so that Meunier could consult with Athos and ensure that they were traveling in the right direction. The swordsman suspected that some of the stops were completely unnecessary and requested by Simon, but he was too tired to protest.

Athos was not certain how much time had passed when the sled lurched to a stop once more. The sky above was overcast, but the day was noticeably darker than it had been when their small company had left the French garrison.

"Athos?" Simon came and knelt by him. "Are you awake?"

"Unfortunately." A groan escaped Athos' lips as he sat up with the young soldier's help. His muscles had grown cold and stiff lying on the travois, which did not help with the pain. "What is going on?"

"The Captain thinks we are very close, but we need to know exactly where we are going. The hillside is steep and uneven and he does not want to risk the horses or the sleds by wandering unnecessarily," Simon explained as Meunier approached them.

"Does this place look familiar to you?"

Athos glanced around, commanding his wandering mind to focus. The rocky ledge that cut back into the mountain about a hundred meters up the steep slope looked exactly like the formation that hid the cave he had taken shelter in along with Porthos and Aramis. A rush of unexpected adrenaline nearly knocked Athos over. "Yes. This is the place. My companions are up there." He pointed at the ledge.

Meunier nodded. "Good. We are close."

The swordsman vibrated with impatience as the horses made their slow, steady way up the hill. As eager as he was to be reunited with his brothers, a sudden fear gripped him that made his heart quail. So much could have happened during the two days of their separation. Aramis' and Porthos' conditions had been so poor when he had left. Was he returning only to bury his friends?

 _Stop being maudlin and have faith,_ Athos silently admonished himself. _They are alive._ He wished his inner voice sounded more convincing.

They reached the lip of the ledge less than an hour later and Athos clambered off the travois as well as he could. The draining hurt that was slowly consuming him momentarily gave way to the anticipation of seeing his friends once more. With Simon's capable help, he hobbled through the mouth of the cave, and what he saw stole his breath away.

"No." He would have collapsed to the ground if not for the young soldier holding him up.

The inside of the cave was cold. The fire he had left burning had been reduced to a pile of glowing embers. In their dull light, Athos saw two achingly familiar bodies leaning against the wall, wrapped tightly together under a blanket as if to stay warm. They were still and silent. The swordsman could not tell if they were breathing.

"Aramis? Porthos?" Athos yanked himself away from Simon's grasp as he limped forward toward his silent friends, unheeding of bone-deep pain that lanced up his leg with every step. He could not bear to have anyone touching him or witnessing his grief. Athos dropped to the ground and hunched before the two figures. He reached out and roughly pushed back Aramis' lank hair. The marksman did not react, and Athos' eyes prickled hot and uncomfortable. "Wake up, please."

Simon crouched next to him and silently pressed his fingers against Porthos' throat and then against Aramis'. He blew out a long breath and announced, "They are alive, Athos." Simon clapped Athos on his uninjured shoulder. "They still live. We made it."

The relief that crashed over the former comte was almost unbearable. He fell forward onto his hands and gasped loudly. "Good," he wheezed. "That is good."

"Athos?"

The swordsman's head shot up at the soft sound of his name. His eyes met Porthos' dark ones. "I am here, brother." He scrambled to the big man and silently cursed the sling that hampered his movement. He tightly wrapped his good arm around Porthos' neck and squeezed hard. He felt the other man stir to weakly return the embrace. "Porthos. Thank God."

"What took so long?" Porthos croaked. "Did you get lost?"

A bark of choked laughter escaped from Athos. "No, my friend. I had some...troubles."

Porthos' eyes narrowed with displeasure as he took in the evidence of Athos' injuries. "I can tell. Are you all right?"

Athos nodded. "Yes. I am."

Porthos shifted, being ever so careful not to disturb the unconscious figure that was still cradled against his chest. "Who is that?" He nodded towards the Simon, who was waiting impatiently as he pulled pouches and wrapped bundles of dried herbs from his satchel.

"That is Simon. He is here to help us," Athos informed him.

Simon gave Porthos a grave nod. "Pleased to meet you. I am glad you are still alive. Athos was quite worried."

"He was not the only one," Porthos rumbled. "Can you...can you help Aramis?"

The young soldier gave Porthos a gentle smile. "I will do everything I can. Will you allow me to see to him?"

With a reluctant nod, Porthos permitted Simon to remove the marksman from his hold. Simon gingerly lay Aramis on the ground by the fire that was roaring once more, courtesy of Bélanger. He and the captain had followed Athos and Simon into the cave and watched silently.

"You mentioned he is ill?" Simon looked to Athos for answers.

"Yes. It is in his lungs," the swordsman said. The ghastly sound of Aramis' hacking coughs and wheezing breaths replayed in his mind. "He sounded terrible."

"Hmm." Simon pressed his ear against the marksman's thin chest and made a low, disapproving noise. He examined the unconscious Musketeer thoroughly and then shook his head gravely, turning to his captain. "We need to stay here for now. This man cannot be moved. The journey back to the garrison would most certainly kill him."

Meunier crossed his arms and acceded. "Do you need anything?"

Simon shrugged. His hands were already busy mixing herbs and powders together. "Later, perhaps. I admit I was not fully prepared for the severity of the illness, but I have what I need for now." He briefly broke his focus to glance at Porthos. "Do not go anywhere. You are next."

Athos scuffled his way towards the prone marksman and stiffly lay down next to him, grimacing at the throbbing aches that squeezed his body. The joy of finding his friends alive was rapidly giving away to an undeniable fear that it would not be enough. He reached out and clutched at the thick wool cloak that was still draped around the marksman's gaunt, still figure.

"I came back, Aramis," he whispered. "I came back for you, as you did for me." Athos desperately prayed that he had done so in time.

* * *

 _Yay! Athos made it! Thanks for reading everyone...one more chapter to go!_


	13. Chapter 13

Porthos leaned back and sighed. He rubbed his shoulder against the rough wooden slats of his chair, trying to find some relief. His healing wound itched terribly, and of course luck would have it that the offending injury would be placed just out of his reach.

"Athos, could you please?" Porthos turned in his seat and gave the swordsman hopeful eyes.

Athos glanced up from his cards with an unimpressed expression. "If this is another ploy to peek at my hand, I assure you that it will not work."

"It's not, I promise. Have mercy, Athos. It itches like hell." He gave the other man another beseeching look.

Athos sighed. "Itchy or not, you are supposed to leave it alone," he muttered severely, but Porthos could already tell that he had won. "Lean back a bit further."

Porthos nearly groaned out loud as Athos reached out and scraped his fingernails around the scabbed wound. He also noted with concern that the swordsman still relied heavily on his right hand, preferring to perform tasks one-handed rather than move his left arm. The damaged shoulder joint was healing much more slowly than they had expected.

"What on earth are you doing?" Simon was staring at them from Aramis' bedside and his stern question made both Athos and Porthos freeze. "I told you not to touch that wound!"

"You will have to forgive them," came the faint response. "Neither are particularly good at heeding sound advice."

"Aramis?" Porthos perked up in his seat, itch forgotten. "Is he awake?"

"Come and see for yourself," Simon said with a smile, his exasperation quickly forgotten. The young soldier stood up and stretched, moving aside to make room for the two Musketeers as they resumed their positions by his bedside. As Athos carefully lowered himself down onto the edge of Aramis' cot, his splinted leg awkwardly jutting out, Porthos took Simon's arm and pulled him aside.

"How is he doing?" he asked quietly.

"Better." He gave Porthos a tired smile. The young man had been working tirelessly on their behalf since Athos had stumbled into his care. "Although he could hardly be doing worse and still be alive."

"So he will recover." Porthos' eyes glanced at the marksman, who was propped up on a pile of pillows to help support his ribs and ease his breathing. Aramis was beaming at something Athos said, and it eased the lingering fear in Porthos' heart to see it. His face was still too pale and too thin, but there was a spark in his eyes that had gradually gotten stronger over the past week, after they had finally left Savoy behind and escaped to the French garrison outside of Briançon.

Simon paused before answering, pursing his lips. "Pneumonia is quite dangerous, and your friend is still very frail," he finally said. "But I am optimistic. He is under my care, after all."

Porthos closed his eyes and exhaled. He had only just recovered his vivacious brother after the massacre. The thought of losing Aramis again to Savoy made Porthos shiver with loathing for the wretched duchy. But no, Aramis was alive. He was not on stable ground quite yet, but he had still survived.

"Thank you," Porthos breathed. He had said those words too many times, and not enough.

The other soldier smiled kindly and pat him on the arm. "I need to prepare some more poultices. Do not overexert yourselves," he warned the three Musketeers as he turned to leave. "I do not want to find any of you undoing my superb work."

"Modest, isn't he?" Porthos muttered fondly as he watched the young man leave. As far as Porthos was concerned, Simon had dragged Aramis back from certain death. He could brag as blithely and often as he wanted.

"Is Simon going to release me from captivity?" Aramis asked as Porthos approached his bedside. "That man is a tyrant."

Athos gave a rare smile as he shuffled over, allowing Porthos to join him on the bed. "But a very capable one," he said. The injuries that Athos had sustained in his bid to find help were also healing well. The lines of pain that had marked his face so deeply were finally beginning to ease. Simon had assured both Athos and Porthos that he would not suffer lasting consequences from his mangled leg, and he was confident that Athos would regain full use of his arm, despite the stubborn slowness of its recovery.

Aramis huffed in mock annoyance and then smiled. "I suppose that is true," the marksman agreed. He coughed and pressed a hand against his chest, clearing his throat with a grimace.

"Should I get Simon?" Porthos asked, tensing in anticipation of another spasm.

"No," Aramis puffed. "I will be fine." Rather than burning Aramis' energy with a needless argument, Porthos simply kept close watch and was relieved when the marksman's breathing evened once more.

The three Musketeers settled into a light conversation, and Porthos was pleased to see that Aramis seemed livelier than he had the day before. The marksman had been so weak when they had finally left the cave, drained to the point of utter exhaustion from both his harrowing experience in Savoy and the treatment that Simon had forced upon him to help clear his lungs. Porthos had come close to punching the young healer after listening to Aramis painfully wheeze and choke his way through Simon's ministrations, but had instead sat on his hands and allowed it to continue. Porthos had congratulated himself on his own self-restraint as his brother's health gradually began to improve. Despite the persistent symptoms that yet refused to release their hold on Aramis, he could feel bright hope pushing its way to the surface. Porthos reached out and grasped the marksman's hand. It felt fragile in his strong grip, but he was gratified to feel Aramis squeeze back firmly. The hard knot that had formed in his chest the day he had stood before Tréville began to loosen.

Simon soon returned with fresh poultices for Aramis' chest. He shooed away the other two Musketeers, promising that they would next be subjected to his scrutiny. Porthos kept an ear on the murmured conversation between Aramis and Simon. As his strength returned, the marksman had begun to take a great interest in the methods that Simon used to treat wounds and illnesses. The young man was apparently from a nearby village, and had grown up in a family of women that had been steeped in local herb lore. Porthos was not entirely certain as to how the gentle young man had ended up as a soldier and had never witnessed Simon taking up any arms, but it was clear that Captain Meunier and the men at the garrison greatly valued their skilled healer nonetheless.

Athos and Porthos resumed their seats at the small, rickety table where their cards were haphazardly scattered. Both men positioned themselves where they had clear views towards Aramis' bed and picked up the cards, pretending to resume their previous game.

"He looks better," Porthos murmured. "Sounds better."

"Yes," Athos agreed. "I would not have thought it possible, just a few days ago."

Porthos scraped his chair back so that he was sitting side-by-side with Athos and slung his arm around the swordsman's shoulders. "And it wouldn't have been. Thank you, Athos."

The other Musketeer shook his head. "I do not need your thanks."

"Well, you have it anyway," Porthos said. "We would not have survived without you."

Athos stared down at his cards. "You would have found a way."

Porthos grinned. "I did find a way. I brought you with me to Savoy. It is one of the better decisions I made in the past month."

Athos rolled his eyes. "Yes, and everything worked out so well."

"Do you regret coming?"

"No," Athos replied immediately. There was no hesitation in the response and something warm settled into Porthos' chest.

"Good," Porthos declared, "because I need help looking after Aramis. Now you know what kind of trouble he gets into when he is left on his own with no one to watch his back."

"Hmm." Athos lay down his hand and tapped his finger against his thigh, above the splinted bandages that were still tightly wrapped around his leg. "In that case, I may need to ask Tréville to raise my wages," he said thoughtfully. "Some sort of hazard pay."

"Let me know what his response is," the big man requested. "Or better yet, let me know when you ask so that I can come along. I would love to see his reaction."

Athos simply raised an eyebrow in response and Porthos laughed. It felt good to be able to do so.

Porthos turned his attention back to the marksman and saw that his friend was drifting back towards sleep. He and Aramis had watched over each other for a long time, with peripheral friends that came and went. It was not unusual, especially considering Aramis' friendly, outgoing nature. But at the end of it all, it was Aramis that was always there for Porthos when needed most, and in return, he that supported Aramis when need was greatest. Porthos remembered being told that triangles were the strongest of shapes, with each leg equally capable of bearing weight and providing support for the other legs. _Perhaps,_ Porthos mused, _what we need is a third._ They needed a cool, steady hand that would offset Aramis' recklessness and his own hot temper.

Luckily, it seemed the third was already in place. Porthos suspected that Aramis had already known, and it had just taken time - and quite a bit of pain - for both Porthos and Athos to come to the same realization. _Better late than never, I suppose,_ he thought. _And well worth waiting for._

 _fin_

* * *

 _Yay! We made it! Thank you to everyone who made it through this journey with me! Until next time..._


End file.
